


Last Year's Troubles

by shretl (girlundone)



Series: A Girl Needs A Gun These Days [3]
Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Chronic Pain, Engagement, Existential Crisis, F/M, Jewish Shepard, Mental Health Issues, Monumental Life Choices, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Destroy Ending, Sexual Content, Wedding, physical health issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-09-13 13:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16893591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlundone/pseuds/shretl
Summary: Now that the war is over, Garrus has to figure out what he wants out of life.A story told in vignettes, starting six years after the Reaper War.A sequel to A Case of You.Art by the amazing autodiscothings @ tumblr.





	1. Cover Art

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the incomparable [autodiscothings @ tumblr](https://autodiscothings.tumblr.com/).


	2. The Late Transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Transit never runs on schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story would not be possible without my wonderful beta, [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer), the great people of FishCat Writing Group, and all the kind readers of [A Case of You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684042/chapters/34252118). I hope this next installment is just as fun to read as it was to write!

**Cipritine, Palaven -- 2192**

 

The transport to Earth was always late.

Say what you will about turians and rigidity, but at least their ships ran on schedule. Shepard had made a joke about that once. Something about a dictator siding with the greatest evil Earth had ever seen, but hey, at least the trains were always on time.

While Garrus certainly was not a proponent of evil, he did sometimes wish that aspect of punctuality rubbed off on further generations of humans.

It also led to the conclusion that he and Shepard should never discuss politics. He may have seen the error of his prejudiced ways after a series of bright-eyed, persuasively voiced discussions after various elevator rides on the Citadel years ago, but no sweetly-smooth talk from Shepard could ever convince him it was a good idea for everyone to have a voice, much less a vote. Of course, he would be the first to admit its imperfections, but he still put his stock behind the well-oiled machine of the Hierarchy.  And though its leaders and lawmakers were reared and educated, not elected, it had worked out well in the past and present. Garrus saw no reason to doubt its successful future.

Especially when it was proof-positive that the Hierarchy was doing a better job than other races’ governments at rebuilding after the war.

The krogan were doing well, of course. They thrived on conflict. The humans were a tenacious bunch who also seemed to ‘never say die.’ But the salarians were floundering and the asari were in shambles. The only people doing worse than they were the remnants of batarian refugees. Without a home or unified government, they were living off of Council-sanctioned handouts on the three-standing wings of the Citadel.

Well, the humans might be resilient but they also never seemed to clean their ships. Still, as he dropped into the uncomfortable seat for his journey back to Earth, skirting customs with illegal flora and fauna by way of dextro food, they certainly weren’t all bad. Their efforts to revive and rebuild were matched only by the turians and the two races, once at odds, had formed the strongest alliance together during and since the end of the war.

If only they’d stop using Shepard and himself as the models of interspecies diplomacy and teamwork.

Everyone in the galaxy knew they were a couple, of course. Garrus just never thought he’d have to worry about the press beyond fantasies of being a famous Spectre with a roguish twinkle beaming off his visor. Their neighbours were fiercely protective of Shepard, and by extension, himself, so long as as they stayed in Gamecock, not a single member of the press got through. They could keep the shutters open and the windows up and take slow, meandering walks through the village.

Outside this bubble, the demands from press and public alike weren’t honestly too much. Taking a picture or two, giving the occasion soundbite. The fervour to hang onto her, and again, by extension his, every word had died down. But everyone still wanted to know when they were getting married.

His dad, strangely, was the most vocal of them all.

It certainly wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married. All that was missing was the actual paperwork and a party, he supposed. (He understood there were chairs involved with Shepard’s traditions. He would definitely have to discuss that with her one day. No one was hoisting him up on a chair and dancing it across a room.) But there just hadn’t been any time. Shepard’s recovery was long. Longer than she and he, but admittedly not the doctors, had expected. She was doing better now, sure, but he was away so often and she was beginning to tackle her official Alliance duties in earnest.

When Shepard woke up, some things became apparent to everybody. She might walk again one day, but she could never serve as a Spectre or a soldier from that day forward. The Council didn’t exactly rush to revoke her status, but they didn’t shelve it either when the first interim Council met.

The Alliance, for once, did good by Shepard. There was a treatment, still in experimental stages, started by the salarians before the war began using the regenerative properties of krogan to stimulate repair and regrowth in spinal cord injuries. The treatment was not covered by insurance.  However, the Alliance would be willing to foot the bill, given one caveat: she would be placed on an indefinite medical leave of absence and, when she was well enough, she was to lobby the Systems Alliance parliament for military interests.

This didn’t sit well with Shepard at all. The idealism that characterised her during those years chasing Reapers hadn’t been knocked out of her by the blast from the Crucible. She understood the need to fund the depleted Alliance corps, but it was the struggling people, all over the galaxy, that she wanted to help.

He might disagree with the notion of ‘one person, one voice, one vote’ but he did agree with Shepard that the time for furthering political agendas was over.  When so many people were struggling to rebuild their homes and families, trying to bring a sense of normality back to their lives, she felt it was petty to peddle the latest dreadnaught schematics in hopes of securing a budget to fund its creation.

Still, though, it would create jobs, he reasoned with her and she agreed. So vidcalls between their little living room and select members of parliament had already begun.

It was good to see Shepard take an interest, albeit a lukewarm one, in anything again. When the worst fears of her recovery begun to pass, they both thought it would be smooth sailing after that.

That was when the panic attacks started.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really. Shepard had been operating in crisis mode since Eden Prime and the first fuzzy image of a Reaper appeared on the screen in the _SR-1._ She hadn’t had time to stop and think and _process_ in six years. Suddenly, she had a relatively good prognosis and all the time in the galaxy. It was like releasing a pressure valve. All the steam came roaring out.

The attacks started out relatively small. But then Shepard would avoid the places they happened, as though grocery store or rehabilitation unit at Gamecock had caused them and not an overtaxed mind. It got to the point where she wouldn’t leave the house, and then, for a week, the bed.

Turians didn’t have any stigmas attached to mental health. If you got sick, you saw a doctor. That was it. It didn’t matter if it was your heart or your mind. You treated it. So he tried to be patient with her embarrassment and shame, though he couldn’t understand it. He did feel her frustration at the unwillingness for these hacks to work with her, though.

The recommendations her doctor at Gamecock gave to them would only meet with her in their offices, as though their profession gave them no insight into how debilitating her condition had become. In a pique of vexation, Garrus contacted Dr. Chakwas, still with her feet planted firmly among the stars on an Alliance cruiser in the Attican Traverse. She made some inquiries of her own, then gave him the name of a psychotherapist in Coventry who was willing to make house visits until progress was made.

 Garrus knew there was a reason he liked that woman.

That had been almost a year ago. And while there were times panic still gripped her, she was coping now. She was dealing with issues and anxiety as they came at her, instead of burying it deep to ‘deal with later’, which was the biggest progress of all.

Now, as Garrus settled in for the long trip ahead, he stared grimly at the unopened ration bar in his hand, as though it was the cause of his consternation. In truth, his mind was on a conversation he had two days earlier.   

He hoped Shepard was ready for a new bend in the road because he had his own doubts. That path, once his life’s ambition, had faded in rapture by other detours he had taken. And now he was not at all certain it was a turn he was prepared to take.


	3. In the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter contains scenes of a sexual nature and depictions of a panic attack. Reader discretion is advised.

**Gamecock** **Barracks** , **UK, Earth** **2192**

 

A burst of bright sunlight filtered through the morning haze and across Garrus’ face. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, loath to wake, but he knew all those years of strict scheduling made it impossible for him to go back to sleep.

Instead, he spent a little while basking in the warmth beneath a pile of blankets and the promise of a hot, humid day. He had come home late the evening before and barely had the energy to eat a protein bar for dinner before scrubbing stale transport dirt off his plates and falling into bed.

Presently, Shepard gave a tentative stretch beside him. He could hear the faint buzz of her omni-tool, which she habitually checked before climbing out of bed. She had just started to ease out from under the covers when he caught her delicate wrist with his hand.

“Where are you going?” Garrus asked playfully, though he heard his own voice was gravelly from sleep. His eyes were still shut against the new day.

She leaned over him, her hair creating a curtain from the sunlight as she kissed his mandible. “Good morning. I was going to let you sleep and make breakfast.”

He opened his eyes, certain she would see the smile in them. A sudden rush of longing came over him, though she was so near. He missed her so much when he was away that the yearning remained palpable even after he returned to her. His hand moved to her hair, urging her closer. “I’m not in the mood for breakfast just yet.”

She returned the smile with one of her own. “Oh?” she asked lightly, her mouth almost brushing his. “What are you in the mood for?”

He kissed her in response. It was lazy and slow, deep and thorough. The silky thing she slept in, sometimes replacing a few grey tee shirts in material, though not in colour, caught on his hands. She straightened, pulling it up and off, over her head.

Her body had changed after the war, more than scars and burns and stiffness. Her hips had widened and her breasts were heavier.  Yet, oddly, her waist looked smaller than it had when she was lean and wiry. Sometimes he missed the shadows and angles of her bones jutting through the skin at her ribs and hips or the hardened plane of her muscled stomach, but he also developed a new appreciation for the lush curves he could bury his face in; the feeling of enveloping comfort he could find in her new embrace.

He pulled her down underneath him, licking a line from her throat to her clavicle. It was still as sharp as ever. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. The usual.” ‘The usual’ meant stiff and sore, but able to push through; not the kind of pain that kept her morose and on the couch. ‘But out of bed,’ she would say.  Her breath hitched as his tongue reached the peak of her breast.

Her soft skin was warm from being curled up against him, under the covers all night; and it occurred to him, not for the first time, but with sudden clarity, that they had all the time in the galaxy to do this. There was no desperation, no rush, no fervour to finish as quickly as possible. If they wanted to, they could spend all day in bed.

He had always wanted this future with Shepard, but, in the back of his mind, he had also doubted it would happen. Suddenly, with his face pressed into her breast, a most unpleasant sensation washed over him, like freezing cold water sluicing down his fringe and over his spine.

He tried to speak, to make a joke, to deflect the feeling that his plates were suddenly too tight.  He tried to say something, but all he could do was gasp. It felt as though all the oxygen had fled the room.

“Garrus?” She manoeuvred to sit up underneath him as he pulled away. He made a noise, not unlike a squawk. Somewhere outside, a bird chirped and a ground vehicle rumbled past. The sunlight abruptly seemed muted; the colours of the world washed out and faded.

“It’s okay. I’m here.”  The concern in her voice was masked with soothing tones. This was not the first time something like this had happened. Just never at such an inopportune moment.  He nodded, trying to ignore the sensation of his heart fighting to get out from behind his keelbone, the feelings of claws around his throat. Ice lodged in his gullet, spreading to his abdomen. He couldn’t breathe and greenish spots danced across his vision. She didn’t touch him, knowing from experience it wouldn’t help just yet. He was aware of feeling vague relief; that he might have thrown her off without realising it.

Extricating himself from above her, he sat back against the wall behind the bed and stared at the open doorway to the bathroom. His carapace rose and sank rapidly and bile sat in the back of his throat. When the Alliance had assigned Shepard the squat, square, bricked-faced cottage, she was still in the hospital. Garrus had spent one night in it, trying to make it inhabitable with an overstock of bedding and piecemeal furniture left over from a big box store that had been abandoned during the war and commandeered by the Alliance commissary. To this day, his unskilled and haphazard decorating remained, but the first weekend he slept in the bed he currently couldn’t breathe in, he gutted the bathroom.

He didn’t start out with that intention. Shepard had been scheduled to be released that week, but it had already been pushed back and it would be delayed three more times before she was actually discharged. But, that first morning in the house, he woke up in an unfamiliar room, vaguely noticed how weak the water pressure was when he flushed the toilet, and then nearly broke his leg spur on the abomination that was called a shower.

It was not a shower, he firmly thought, but a death trap. It consisted of a bathtub one was meant to climb over, presumably holding onto the flimsy curtain he should eventually hang, thereby hurrying his own death when it snapped and he broke his neck. Provided he survived this climb into the vessel, a rusted chrome showerhead sprayed weak, needle-like water in vague spurts.

After carefully removing himself from the design-flawed bathroom, he had dressed and headed back to the warehouse where the bed, dinette set, and couch came from and returned with a stainless steel shower frame, a power nozzle component that could be hand-held, bars for Shepard when she could stand in the shower, and a steel ledge that acted as a seat when she could not. A variety of white tiles, not all of which matched each other, and pails of grout and tubes of sealant had also made the trip in the ground vehicle he borrowed, along with a toilet that looked like it wouldn’t back up if he drank more than a bottle of water.

He spent the entire weekend up to his elbows in copper piping and mouldy drywall, another problem he would eventually tackle in a concerted effort to avoid thinking about Shepard’s delayed release.  But it also took his mind off of everything else. The uncertain future of the galaxy, how and when and if Shepard would ever be able to walk more than a few feet, his utter helplessness in the face of a situation that he couldn’t fix or fight. Working with his hands always calmed him, and now, in the bed, trying to breathe, he knotted them into the sheets. He didn’t feel like he was going to die; he felt like something terrible was going to happen and he must stop it. And yet, hadn’t the worst already happened? The Reapers came and left the smouldering ashes of the galaxy in their wake. But he had survived. Sol and Dad had survived.

Shepard had survived.

Without looking at her, he groped for her hand. She took his, bringing it up to her heart. He tried to time his erratic breathing to its beat.

“It’s okay. I’m here,” Shepard was still murmuring, softly, like singing a song under one’s breathe. He found it incredibly calming. The knot in his throat began to loosen and he took a deep breath.

“Sorry,” he said, not looking away from the glimmer of the duraglass door of the shower. The hard water had left spatter marks across it, not unlike the window behind Butler that had been painted with his brains. He closed his eyes and averted his gaze before he opened them. The sun was bright this time of year, burning through the shades, but it was still feeble compared to Palaven’s white-hot light.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she replied earnestly.

“It’s just… I was thinking…” He didn’t know how to finish it, how to grasp his thoughts and fashion them into words.

Tentatively, she brought his hand up to her mouth and kissed it. Something in this action, so familiar and comforting, brought a sensation of tranquil stability that pushed through the weight of terrible foreboding in his keel.  Air flooded his lungs in welcomed relief. His heart still hammered, but he felt the first wave of exhaustion wash over him. It was almost over.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He knew she believed what she said, but he couldn’t. Not after everything that happened. The choking sensation of the claws that had seized at his throat earlier lingered, but he nodded, as though he agreed. It was more that he acknowledged that she understood what was going through his head.

“It’s still early. Try to close your eyes. I’m here.”

He turned his head into her, the warmth of her breast cooler than it had been before. He took a deep breath, the woodsy scent of the spiky purple plants she picked from the common meadow perfuming the air. The smell was foreign, though not unpleasant, and he associated it with the little brick house and Shepard now; it placated him more than he realised.

Her hand stroked the top of his fringe lightly as he settled against her. “I’m here,” she said again and again, like a lullaby, until his eyes fell closed.


	4. In the Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus has some news after breakfast.

**Gamecock Barracks, UK, Earth 2192**

 

Shepard, who showed so little interest in her food, had taken an especial shine to cooking his own. Not that Garrus had a reason to complain, but whenever he half-heartedly insisted she didn’t need to make him meals, she would laugh and claim making others eat was in her genetic makeup.  Now, as she was rinsing up, her mug of tea growing cold on the counter, she said over her shoulder, “Remember, the water’s out from ten ‘til sixteen hundred.”

Water and power shortages were not just status quo on Earth. Palaven’s infrastructure had taken just as hard a hit. The Citadel was struggling to keep the three remaining wards fit and functioning as well.

He scraped the last of his meal up with the _ferculum_ that he brought back with him, still reasonably fresh from Palaven. “So, I got another job offer.”

Shepard had dried her hands and settled into the chair opposite him at their tiny kitchen table. Before she replied, she took a sip of her cooled tea that she carried over. No power, not even Dr. Chakwas, could convince her to eat breakfast. Garrus gave up trying a long time ago. “Oh yeah? What kind of skycar did they offer this time?”

She had good reason to smirk as she asked this facetious question. Garrus had been fielding a lot of job offers in the past year, mostly from backwater colonies under the Hierarchy who were desperate to use that great leveler, the destruction of war, to build up bigger and better than before and exert their newfound power over the older, established worlds. They offered perks like palatial villas (conveniently emptied by the war) and luxury skycars, but they were still backwater colonies and he couldn’t picture himself, much less Shepard, living in such spacious confines. She was a city person, born and bred, and he considered himself one, too, especially after living on the Citadel and Omega. Shepard had once called him ‘bridge-and-tunnel’ and though he had to look it up on the extranet and reacted accordingly, he had to admit it was true. Still, he grew up within a stone’s throw of Cipritine and the idea of a colony’s ‘big city’ consisting of acres of pre-fabs and a few questionably good but overly-lauded restaurants left him unenthusiastic at the prospects the jobs offered.

Maybe he had finally become a good turian, or maybe it was the pride in which he watched his people respond and recover from the war, but Garrus wanted to serve the Hierarchy as best he knew how. His time away had, thankfully, knocked him down a few rungs in the ladder. And though he was still saluted on the street and no longer had to shout to be heard, he was further away than before from the recently emptied Primarch’s chair.

Victus had been appointed Turian Councilor following a series of interim placeholders since the war. He still seemed bemused by his ascension to such lofty heights and retained a familiar camaraderie with Garrus.

It was he who offered the job.

Garrus crumbled a bit of the hard _ferculum_ in his talons. “It was more like a free pass to commandeer any skycar I want.”

“You’re chief security advisor for the Hierarchy. Can’t you do that already?” she retorted in good humour.

She looked so content as she teased him, perched on the chair in the little kitchen of their squat cottage, relaxed with the promise of a hot, sunny day ahead, and a smile on her face that he found it hard to clarify further. He brushed his hands together and pushed his plate away. “Yeah, no. I mean, Victus called me.”

As though she knew what was coming, Shepard set down her mug and straightened up in her chair.

“He wants to nominate me. For Spectre status.”

If he didn’t know her so well, he might have missed the flicker of unadulterated terror that passed over her face before rearranging itself in studied, smooth lines. Garrus had thought he was the only one who admired Shepard’s acting abilities until Mordin, studying her like a specimen on Tuchanka, had blinked guilelessly at him and said, “Consummate actress. Stage missing a star.”

Before she could possibly say anything, he added, “I told him I had to think about it.”

This time, Shepard didn’t even try to hide her surprise. “But I thought it’s what you always wanted.” She spoke without pausing to think; such a rarity that he knew she was stunned.

Garrus leaned back in his chair with a sigh. Victus had said much the same thing to Garrus himself. “It was,” he reasoned, his subvocals thrumming with sudden weariness. Though she couldn’t hear them, perhaps Shepard could hear another quality in his voice. She dragged her chair next to his. Though they showed little affection in public, save for a dramatic kiss or three during the war, they gravitated toward such displays in private.

She had reached for his hand, ready to soothe, and he took it, readily accepting what she had to offer. “I’m tired, Shepard,” he admitted quietly. “I’m tired of this… this holding pattern, living here and working there. I hated my dad for doing that and now _I_ am. I want a home. I want to be able to come home after work and not hear about your day on vid calls and lug food on every transport.” She looked so stricken as he said this that he added, “Who knew you’d turn out to be such a good cook?”

She didn’t smile, though. Instead, she leaned her forehead against his. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know if my doctors weren’t here—”

He tilted his head back to look her in the eye. “Hey. Hey. This is not your fault. I’m not blaming you. It’s just, this wasn’t the plan and you’re doing so much better and…”

As he trailed off, she finished his thought. “And you want a home.”

“Yeah.” It was strange, he thought, that his thirst for adventure might have been quenched when he had thought it inexhaustible. And yet, there was nothing he wanted more than to sit in a kitchen, on a sunny morning, with Shepard. It seemed like the most perfect thing he could attain.

Her voice was soft, almost yearning, as though she had been having the same thought. “I do, too.”

She rested her head against his cowl and he wrapped his arm around her waist, theorising that she wouldn’t appreciate the crumbs of his breakfast in her hair. Eventually, tentatively, she spoke. “If you were a Spectre, you couldn’t come home every night.”

A child’s voice could briefly be heard outside and he noticed that the thick yellow sunshine had begun to burn through the hazy-humid fog of the late morning. For a moment, he could imagine he was on Palaven, eating breakfast with Shepard, in their home, not a tumbledown pile of bricks on Alliance property. “Yeah.”

Shepard tilted her head up, as though drawn by the longing in his own voice. “But it’s also your dream.”

She couldn’t live on Palaven anyway. It was one thing for him to adapt to the cold and another for her to deal with radiation. And, if he took Victus up on his offer, it wouldn’t really be much different than it was now. They’d have a house somewhere and there were vidcalls and vacations.

It was what he always dreamt about.

Wasn’t it?

He hummed a sound of assent, lost in thought. A house, as he had been learning, was not a home.

“Maybe you should talk to your dad.”

That jerked him back to the present with a laugh. “The years may have mellowed him, but it didn’t change his views on Spectres’ powers.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, reaching for her cold mug over his empty plate, “But he does know what it’s like to have a job one place and a home somewhere else.”

It was a good point. One he was uncomfortably familiar with, having thrown it up in his father’s face throughout adolescence. He grimaced at the thought of becoming what he thought he feared most: his dad. “Yeah.”

She picked up her mug and his plate and rose somewhat stiffly. “Besides, we both want the same thing for you.”

He fought the urge to grab the dishes from her. It was one thing to help and another to coddle. “What’s that?”

She turned around halfway and said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy, “For you to be happy.”


	5. A Conversation with Castis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Castis have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a happy and healthy holiday season! Wishing you all a fabulous new year!
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of anxiety, if not an actual panic attack.

**The Citadel, 2192**

 

When Garrus was on the Citadel, he stayed with his father and sister.

Housing had always been at a premium on the space station, but since the war, it was even more overcrowded, overdemanded, and overpriced. Now that Castis was the liaison to C-Sec for the Hierarchy, he and Sol occupied a moderately-sized, if dilapidated apartment in one of the three wards that remained inhabitable.

Though Sol’s inherent gracefulness would forever be marred by a limp, nothing seemed to be able to conquer her spirit. Rather than return to service after the war, she had decided to become a dance therapist. Not that Garrus had any recourse to question her life decision, certainly not after Omega.  However, he was still her big brother, and finally, he asked why.

_“Life’s too short,” Sol says to him, her hands and arms still fluidly elegant as she practices some steps before the mirror on her bedroom door. “And you know what they say: those who can’t, teach.”_

_Garrus examines the small silver casket on her nightstand. He had told Castis such horror stories of Eden Prime and Horizon that both his dad and Solana had prepared ‘go bags’ should an invasion strike. Sol had packed his mother’s jewellery case and Castis, to Garrus’ chagrin, had taken all the family holos and vids. “Sounds like you spent a lot of time around humans during the war.”_

_Sol’s movements don’t falter as she flicks her mandibles at him from the mirror’s reflection. “Hey, you were a good teacher.”_

_Garrus runs his talon over a pair of silver cuffs that his mother always wore. They had been in her family for generations. She took them off to garden and Sol would wear them around the house and pretend she was an empress. Garrus was usually the errant_ equester _who wouldn’t follow any of her commands and eventually held one of her dolls for ransom until she abdicated._ _“Thanks,” he mutters, lost in thought._

_Sol’s subharmonics buzz with laughter. He looks up and narrows his eyes at her reflection. “Wait. What don’t you think I can do?”_

_She shoots him a cheeky grin. “Well, dance, for one thing.”_

Well, he had shown her a thing or two. Of course, once she learned the basic steps of the tango, limp or not, she soon overtook him. But it had felt good to dance around the apartment with her that day. It had been one of the early trips, when leaving Shepard had been particularly difficult.

She was out, though, at one of her classes, but Castis was in the small living room, doing a cryptic crossword on a datapad.

Castis looked up over the puzzle as Garrus sat down on the couch across from him, but before the elder Vakarian could ask for his help with a clue, the younger spoke first. “Hey, Dad, I wanted to talk to you.”

Castis dropped the datapad in his lap, looking happier than Garrus had seen him in years “You’re getting married.”

“What, no,” Garrus exhaled impatiently. “It’s—"

But Castis cut him off with a frown. “Well, why not?”

Garrus fought the urge to bury his head in his hands. “Dad,” his subvocals whined.

Now Castis crossed his arms, making Garrus feel like the time he was eight and got into a fight with the boy across the street. “Explain it to me. Help me to understand.”

Or when he was twelve and took Castis’ rifle apart to improve the stability. “Look, there just hasn’t been time. With everything going on—"

“I didn’t like your excuses when you were ten and I don’t like them now.” Ah, yes, ten. Ten was when he built an incendiary device for chemistry and destroyed the kitchen table.

However, he was thirty-four now and didn’t have to explain himself to his father any longer. “Dad!” he barked, putting the iron of leadership in his subvocals.

Castis sighed in a way that still drove home his disappointment in his son, straight through the keel and into the heart. “All right, all right. What is it?”

Now that he had his father’s undivided attention, he wished it away, staring at his hands instead. “Well, I, uh, got this job offer…”

“Yes?” Castis had an ability to sound neither impatient nor incurious, while also remaining slightly aloof. It had served him well as an investigator.

“Victus wants to nominate me.”

When Garrus didn’t clarify, Castis tilted his head. His son could feel the searching glance sweep over himself, though his father’s tone remained light. “For a makeover?” Though Castis would have it that Sol made him watch Now Wear This every week, the truth was that the father enjoyed it as much as the daughter. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I do like the dear girl, but she has you in the drabbest colours.”

Well, that was true. Shepard had culled his wardrobe long ago, and his closet was a sea of black and navy. It wasn’t like Garrus was looking to pick up an eligible turian anyway, and it seemed to make Shepard happy, so he wore the sombre colours and only occasionally missed his brighter suits.

He thought of the way Shepard looked when he told her about the nomination. He steeled himself for Castis’ reaction. “No. For Spectre status.”

Though his father and Shepard were worlds and years apart, that same flicker of fear that shot through Castis’ blue eyes was there as well. He recovered nicely, however, screwing his mandibles flat against his face. “Oh. Oh, I see.” Clearing his throat to drown out his anxious subvocals, he tossed the datapad on his lap aside. “Well, that bottle of horosk I’d been saving was most likely wasted on a marauder but I do have some beer. Your sister does allow me to have it now and again, if I’m very, very good.”

Before Castis could stand, Garrus stopped him with words that still surprised he himself. “I didn’t say yes. I told him I had to think about it.”

“Yes?” His father pressed his palms against his thighs, but tried to stem the eagerness from his voice.

Garrus swallowed, feeling the all-too-familiar sensation of talons at this throat. Now was not the time. “Yeah, I just… I’m not sure.”

This time, Castis did lean forward, dropping his carefully constructed aloofness to ask, “That you want to be a Spectre?”

The waves of exhaustion lapped at Garrus’s fringe. He would not be pulled under. But it came out in his subvocals despite himself. He could hear it before he admitted it aloud. “That I want that life. I watched Shepard just, just _struggle_ with the weight of it, the exhaustion, the toll, and I don’t know if I want that. I’m… I’m tired, Dad.”

“I know,” Castis said softly. Though they weren’t touching, Garrus felt closer to his father than he had since he was a fledgling.

It made what he said next spill out easily, though he instantly regretted the possibility of losing that feeling of security a parent’s presence provides. “And I hated you for missing Sol’s recitals and my math league finals. I don’t want to live like that. But it’s just that we’re in this holding pattern, Shepard and me, and I like my job now but I hate being away so much. But Earth was never the plan. She’s doing so much better and I don’t want to push but…”

Garrus broke off, swiping at the collar of his suit, but Castis did not yield his comforting tones. His subvocals hummed with soothing vibrations. “Yes?”

Finally, Garrus looked up to find his father watching him with the same compassion he could always remember, but often chose not to see. “We could live on the Citadel. She could continue her rehab there and I’m sure the Hierarchy could find something for me to do. C-Sec could use the help. I wouldn’t be on a transport every other week or have to smuggle food in.” He flicked a mandible in a weak smile. “I might actually get warm.”

Castis did not return it, however he also did not change his position, hovering like a harvester _._ “Have you suggested this to Shepard?”

“No, not about moving. Just about the job.” Again, he flared his mandibles at his father. “She told me to talk to you.”

This time, Castis reciprocated. “She is such a wise lady,” he said fondly.

“Yeah,” Garrus agreed, with an indulgent grin of his own. Shepard had been so ridiculously nervous the first time she met Castis that Garrus had found himself hard-pressed not to burst out into laughter. The woman who could charm an envirosuit off a volus was as stiff and formal as a fifteen-year-old at boot camp with a superior officer. In fact, she had acted the same way with Sol. It had occurred to Garrus then that Shepard had desperately wanted his family to like her, and was so self-conscious of herself that her usual charming affectations fell to the wayside. But both Sol and Castis had been kind and patient with her, and the Vakarian humour was no match for her nerves. Shepard’s wit eventually persevered and, though she was still deferential with them in ways she was only with Alliance superiors, Castis and Sol liked her nearly as well as Garrus did.

Castis had been quiet for some time, apparently gathering his words while his son was lost in thought. He cleared his throat, his subvocals confidential in tone. “When your mother and I got married, I didn’t imagine we wouldn’t live together. But it was important to her—” He interrupted himself and quickly amended, “To both of us, that you and your sister grow up with fresh air, room to grow, within the Hierarchy. I know it wasn’t perfect. I know we made mistakes. I know _I_ made mistakes. But,” At this, Castis caught Garrus’ eye. “We made the decision together. We had many discussions and debates, and yes, even some fights, but we made all those decisions together. That was important, Garrus.”

While Castis had been speaking, Garrus thought of how the war, and losing Lavinia, had aged his father. His plates looked more brittle and didn’t shine as much when they caught the light. He had never considered before that his parents could have been in love the way he and Shepard were in love. The thought momentarily made him forget the phantom claws around his throat, only to have them return with force. The idea of talking to Shepard, disrupting the balanced equation that was their relationship into a complex problem he couldn’t begin to solve, brought on that sickly thud of his heart beating too quickly behind his keel. Still, he agreed with his dad.  “Yeah.”

Castis finally leaned back, either from discomfort in his back or by judging the change in Garrus’ demeanour. It really wasn’t something his son could spare a thought to solve. “Now, what else is bothering you?”

Garrus unconsciously drove his talons deeper into the sides of his thighs. Sometimes the sudden jolt of pain would snap him out of it. “What? Nothing.”

Castis crossed his arms, the picture of doubt. “Please. You look like you’re about to break a mandible off.”

They were, in fact, pinched so tightly against his face that his good one ached as he flicked it out in a self-depreciating smirk. “Couldn’t look much worse.”

Castis regarded him patiently, but said nothing.

Talons in the thighs were not working. Garrus balled his hands into fists at his sides. “I’ve just been a little stressed,” he demurred, while his heart beat mercilessly against his keelbone like a prisoner begging to be freed from the confines of his cell.

Suddenly, Castis looked deeply uncomfortable. Averting his eyes, he cleared his throat and tried to keep the squawk out of his subvocals. “Ah. Yes. Well, if she’s not up to it, there are other ways to—"

Garrus jumped up off the couch as though to physically fend off that line of thought. “No! Just…” He took a deep, steadying breath, but his heart lurched on, stomping the words as they came out. “It’s not her. It’s just… about her. I keep thinking… it’s stupid.”

Castis looked relieved and did not hide it in his affectionate tones. “You are many wonderful and terrible things, but stupid is not one of them.”

“Thanks,” Garrus muttered, unaware that he had begun pacing as he timed his pulse. One hundred and forty-seven. One hundred forty-seven times seven was one thousand twenty-nine. Divided by nine was one hundred fourteen point three. The square root of three was—

“Come, come. Tell me.”

Garrus didn’t know how to begin. Castis, like most of the galaxy, didn’t really imagine or understand Shepard had died. They thought she was undercover, or injured and in a coma, or both, but no one really believed she was dead and brought back to life. Garrus chose his words carefully, that subnote of exhaustion belying his racing heart. “I’m afraid of her leaving again.”

Castis considered his pacing son. His voice was still kindly, almost gentle. “It was my understanding that she didn’t choose to leave during any of those times you were apart.”

Garrus thought of Shepard running, always running, toward geth and mercs, husks and Reapers. He thought of how many times she looked back at him and ran forward anyway. He thought of her voice choked, but determined as she pushed him into the _Normandy._ He thought of how she glowed as she ran toward that beam. “Yeah,” his vocals agreed while his mind rebelled.

Castis stood up and placed a compassionate hand on his son’s shoulder. He stopped in his tracks, stiffening at the touch but not throwing his father off. “Garrus. Look at me.”

Garrus took a steadying breath and turned around. His father was looking at him so compassionately that it was almost piteous. Garrus looked away instantly, unable to bear it.

Still, Castis persisted, his tone not cajoling, but rather concerned. “Why do you think she would leave? I’ve seen the way she looks at you. It’s really quite sweet.” His mandibles parted in a rueful smile, that faraway look in his father’s eye telling Garrus that the former wasn’t thinking of Shepard, but of his own departed wife.

Suddenly, Garrus felt ashamed. He had Shepard to look at him that way, because he knew the look his father meant, and his dad had no one. With an effort, he began, “It’s just… we’re doing so good, you know, together, and… I don’t know.”

Castis, however, seemed to puzzle out the meaning of that woefully expressed thought. “You think if something changes, like where you live or work, that will change your relationship, too?”

A weight seemed to lift off Garrus’ cowl to have found himself understood. He found his words almost eagerly, glad to finally share this burden of worry with someone who could help. “Yeah. I guess. I just feel like… you know, her people have this tradition. At their weddings, they stomp on a piece of glass. It’s good luck no matter what, but if you break it on the first try, it’s doubly good. I feel like I’m trying to walk on glass and not break it. And it’s not her, Dad. I know she wouldn’t— doesn’t— want to leave but she didn’t those other times either and what if it happens again?”

His father’s hand briefly touched his scarred mandible, causing Garrus to look up at his father’s consternated face. “My dear boy, what do you think will happen again? The coma? The Reapers?”

With a sigh, Garrus confessed to the thoughts that had been preying on his mind. “Yeah. All of it. I’d rather keep going on like this than risk any of that happening again.”

“The galaxy doesn’t work like that. And neither is that living.” When Garrus didn’t lift his gaze nor move away, Castis put his hand on either side of his son’s cowl and added bracingly, “I’ve never known you to be afraid of facing your fears. I’m going to take that dear girl’s advice to you and turn it on its fringe. You need to tell her these things. She’ll listen. I’ve heard tell that you have a very attractive voice.” He tilted his head in a preening manner, “Of course, you inherited it from me.”

Garrus flicked his mandibles in a half-hearted smile, though he realised his heart had slowed down and his throat didn’t feel as tight as it had earlier. “Thanks, Dad.” And he meant it.

Castis briefly returned one of his own. “Of course. I have to earn that title, after all. Now,” he added, giving Garrus a little push toward the kitchen, “Where do you think your sister hides the _tergilla_? She has me on this salarian diet, you know. No fat, no sugar, no taste, no fun.”


	6. In the Rainy Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard have a heated discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing everyone a happy and healthy new year.

**Gamecock Barracks, UK, Earth 2192**

 

It had been raining, though not heavily, on and off the entire day. During a lull, Shepard had opened the window by her chair and let in the sweet, humid air. The day was not unlike one on Palaven; steamy, muggy, and ripe with lush vegetation. Though, he had never seen blooms so tiny and in so many colours. Flowers on his homeworld were voluptuous and silver-gilded when they bloomed at dusk. His mother had known the name for them all.

There was only one light on in the living room. The sun that emerged that day was as weak and watery as the foggy, pale yellow liquid in the glass Shepard poured, left abandoned and sweaty on the table in front of the couch. It was dim, with only one occasionally flickering light turned on. There seemed to be the kind of foreboding in the air preceded an electrical storm. 

Shepard, sitting at an odd angle in the chair by the window, was poring over a datapad marked Confidential: Alliance Personnel Only. Her head was bent so that he could see all the gold glints in her hair, which was pinned up from her neck in a concession to the thick air. Occasionally, she would tuck a curl back behind her ear, though it would eventually fall forward again.

Her hair had grown back darker, redder, and curlier, after being singed by the trials of the Crucible and thinned out by various drugs and treatments for her spinal injuries over the years. When it had started to fall out, a side effect of the medicated coma and then the medicine regimen she found herself on, she wept for its loss. He hadn’t understood, as she hadn’t cried over so many other trials her body had been put through. She tried to explain, somewhat fruitlessly through tears, what her hair meant to her. But when he still hadn’t gotten it and assured her it would grow back, she simply said, “It’s just too much.” And that he understood.

He was sketching it now, he realised, doodling crests and waves and a hint of her profile in the margin of a budget proposal he ought to be reviewing. Hastily, he cleared his datapad and set the stylus down.

The song on his playlist switched, though he hadn’t noticed the previous one began. The words in front of him made less sense than a salarian marriage contract. He switched the music off. “I talked to my dad.”

“Yeah?” Shepard didn’t look up. Her brow was creased in irritation, though he knew it had nothing to do with him.

“I mean, back when I was on the Citadel.” He realised that he missed having family on Palaven. That some part of him still thought of it as home, the way Earth would always hold a piece of Shepard’s heart. Oddly, he and Shepard never called this place home, either. It was ‘the house’. It was furnished, not decorated. It looked like a well-used suite of hotel rooms, not a lived-in abode.

She did look up then, marking her place with the press of her thumb. “Oh, about the job?” She sounded almost airy, but her shoulders were tense.

“Yeah, and some other things.” She was watching him carefully, as though trying to gauge what he was going to say next and prepare herself accordingly. He remembered exactly what he planned on saying, how he was going to lay his feelings bare, but what came out was not those carefully crafted words. “I was thinking, we should move to the Citadel. I mean, I won’t take the appointment. I’ll figure something out. C-Sec, I guess. Maybe Victus has another idea. But we can’t live like this anymore. This isn’t living. It’s waiting.”

Whatever she had expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. Yet, she took the onslaught of words admirably. There was a pause, long enough for him to say something else, but he didn’t. She let out a breath. “Okay.”

Inexplicably, he felt a surge of frustration. She was always acquiescing, always compromising. To the Alliance, to causes she didn’t necessarily believe in just to secure a slice of peace. He didn’t want to be in that category. The urge to rail at her for so readily agreeing with him rose in his throat, but he passed it off with a brief laugh, as though waving off a buzzing insect. “You can say no, you know.”

She pushed her hair back again and he felt his annoyance grow. Didn’t she have enough of those pins that inevitably stabbed him in the foot to hold it back? “I know this wasn’t what we ever planned. I’m doing better and I know Drs. Rapaport and Haidri can give me some referrals. The Alliance doesn’t need me on Earth. We can do this.”

Her voice had that cadence of determination which, oddly, reminded him of their time on Feros. Then it had seemed, at every turn, someone asked more of her. The idea that he could be lumped into that sentiment made him fist his hands into balls. “No.” He heard the irritation in his subvocals, but he couldn’t stem it.

Shepard, however, looked confused. The datapad was left forgotten in her lap. “No, what?”

He could feel his mandibles pinched tight; sensed the cybernetics beneath the scarred ones humming at the strain. “No, not like this. No, you don’t know how to say no. No.”

She leaned back, almost as if shoved. “Garrus—”

His leg ached in this weather. He shifted irritably on the couch, too disturbed to laze as he had been before, too annoyed to sit still. He hated the sound of his subvocals. It wasn’t a whine, but the provoking lilt was there. Words came tumbling out, voicing grievances that he had dragged up more than once throughout their relationship. “I don’t understand why you do it. You’re pandering for things you don’t believe in, and it’s not the first time.” He jerked his head dismissively toward the datapad in her lap, unable to stop the onslaught. “It’s not like you do it so people like you. I know that.” Suddenly, he stood, as if incapable of sitting a moment longer. The words were a flood now, instead of a rushing stream, and it felt so vindictively good to say them. “Is it that you want them to be proud? You think you owe everyone something? I think that’s it. Do you think you’re in my debt? Is that it? It doesn’t work like that.”

Her jaw was set, and her eyes seemed like the greenish grey of a sky with funnel clouds. “I don’t know what you want from me.” The words could have been pleading, but they were anything but that. Frost clung to them.

Though he towered over her, he felt impotence at her icy calm. It infuriated him in the way only fierce passion for another could evoke, serving to stoke the flames of his ire higher. “I want your damned opinion!”

Deliberately, she moved the datapad to the table and stood up. Her voice was still steady, but his rage had melted its glacial chill. “I’ve never liked the Citadel. But if it would make you happy, I’d live in the Terminus. Because you’re miserable, Garrus, and it’s breaking my heart.” It was her voice, though, that broke on the last words.

All at once, he felt his anger flare out, like flames doused by water. With the same suddenness, he felt weariness blanket him as the fury was replaced by fatigue. His shoulders slumped as he denied it. “I’m not—”

But she cut him off, carefully bypassing the table between them. “Yes. You are. And, you know what? You’ve spent enough time following what I need.” By the time he opened his mouth, she had put her palms flat on both of his arms. “No, no, it’s not about owing, it’s not about debts. I love you and we need to move forward. There has to be some kind of balance. We don’t need to be here any longer. I know that. It’s your time, now.” Then she smiled, that small, secret smile that he loved. “You told me I needed to be more selfish? Well, you do, too.”

He sat down heavily, taking her hand so she would join him. It was a small, quiet voice that said, “I don’t know what I want.”

She leaned her head against his cowl, her fingers rubbing his back soothingly. It seemed that no matter what they fought over—and they did fight, over things like how he set the thermostat or how she loaded the dish sanitizer, that they always ended up in this position, no matter who was at fault and who was repentant. “I know that. I know.”  She paused, whether to gather a thought or put a long-kept one into words, he wasn’t sure. “Maybe… talk to Victus. See what he can offer. He sees what I see in you, and I know you wouldn’t be happy at C-Sec, either. But, you’re right. We can’t stay here any longer.”

They remained like that for a while, his arm around her waist, negotiating how much weight he put on his leg and how often she needed to shift before she grew stiff and uncomfortable. And though their house wasn’t a home, and the couch wasn’t really suited for either of them, he was still gripped by the same dread as before. “What if…”

She lifted her head to look at him. “What?”

His heart gave a sickening thud. If he said it, then everything would be irrevocably altered, yet how could he not voice his biggest fear with the person he loved and trusted most? The words felt sticky and heavy as he pushed them out. “What if everything changes?”

Something in her face shifted, making it softer. Her voice was so gentle. “Everything always changes, Garrus. Even when you’re trying to hold it still.”

He closed his eyes, as though unable to bear the reassurances he knew would come with what he said next. “I can’t lose you again.”

She did just that, pressing her brow against him as though to seal her words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And though he never doubted her conviction, he still had misgivings about her ability to keep that promise. He opened his eyes and held her gaze.  “You say that, but what if you can’t say no to the next person?”

She didn’t look away even as she sighed. Her fingers lingered over his colony markings, as though they held some answer neither of them suspected. “I know you’re right. I can’t do this anymore, either. I can’t continue to support things because I feel it’s my duty to, instead of believing in them.” She cupped his mandible in her hand and added, “I can promise you that you’ll always come first. _We_ will always come first.” A self-depreciating smile crossed her face, erasing the serious lines the conversation had evoked. “You know me, though. I’m always going to fight for what I believe in.”

He knew that though the discussion had seemed to end, it would still be one they would have years from now. Yet, he felt encouraged by the thought; that they would have years to come. That change didn’t have to be as terrifying as he feared. He mirrored his hand on her cheek, his mandible flicking out beneath her hand. “You wouldn’t be my girl if you didn’t.”


	7. A Conversation with Victus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus has a talk with Victus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Especial thanks to my fabulous beta [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer) for all her input and advise with Victus' characterisation. Bioware created him, but she gave him life. Perceaclops, as featured below, are also from her brilliant mind. A creature of Palaven you can read more about when learning how Adrien Victus copes with the aftermath of the Reaper War in [The Primarch's Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8355244).

**Gamecock Barracks, UK, Earth and The Citadel, 2192**

 

Garrus did not call Victus immediately. He and Shepard spent several more days discussing the idea of moving to the Citadel after that stormy early evening.

On her part, Shepard finally admitted to a great deal of trepidation. She confessed, as though acknowledging a crime, her concerns with living in a place where she had seen so much horror and devastation. A place where she had condemned so many to die so that many millions more could live.

After hearing that, Garrus wanted to call the whole the thing off. How could he subject her to living there daily when she felt that way? But her cool, reasonable voice prevailed, with that unadulterated, optimistic conviction he could never understand and only admire. _“We can’t go on like this forever. We’re living day by day and you’re right. It’s not living. It’s time, Garrus. Let’s do this.”_

He waited until Shepard was at physical therapy to pull up Victus’ office code. Though he knew she would give him all the space he needed, he wanted room to pace and the small cottage was even tinier to a turian.

A blandly attractive turian answered the call. “Councillor Victus’ office. Myela speaking. How may I help you?”

If the woman recognised him, she did not so much as flutter a mandible. “Uh, yeah, this is Garrus Vakarian. Is Vic— is the Councillor available?”

Without a pause, she replied smoothly, “He’s in a meeting right now. May I take a message?”

Garrus hadn’t really expected Victus to be free, but it would have made the whole affair more bearable. He had always liked to get things over with rather than drag them out. “Uh, sure. Just tell him I called about our last conversation. He’ll know what I mean.”

Again, Myrela remained completely unruffled by this cryptic missive. “Of course, Advisor Vakarian. Have a nice day.”

He couldn’t help it. His mandibles flickered at how smoothly she handled the call. Though, conversely, it would have annoyed and embarrassed him if she had made her recognition known. Something of the nerves he held dispelled at this line of thought. “Yeah, you too.”

Unfortunately, as the hour passed, his anxiety returned anew and with vigour. He wore a path between the living room and kitchen, constantly checking his omni-tool and the vid screen for life.

He couldn’t even ping Shepard with annoying messages. She couldn’t reply when she was in a session.

He tried to read the budget proposal that eluded his attention for the past several days but ending up working the numbers into several theoretical equations that had nothing to do with the suggestion allotment of ammunition per month on Palaven to the military police reserves.

Just as he was working out how to apply the value of ‘n’, the vid screen came to life. He jumped up and took several long strides from the kitchen table to the living room.

Victus’ assistant reappeared, though she was no longer in the cool-toned office Garrus had last seen her. Instead, a wall decorated with a perceaclop’s mounted head came into view. “Councillor Victus calling for Advisor Vakarian. Advisor Vakarian, please hold the line.”

Once she confirmed Garrus was indeed available to speak, she moved out of the vid screen. He could hear the door cycling shut as Victus appraised him from behind his massive desk. He looked good, despite being mired in politics and not a swamp riddled with scavengers, where he would no doubt prefer to be.  “Vakarian. I see your fringe hasn’t frozen off… yet.”

Garrus’ mandibles twitched in amusement. Though the sun was shining again, its yellow light could never compare to the way Trebia’s star shone white-hot heat on Palaven. “It’s summer here, actually.”

Victus managed to look both disbelieving and disapproving. His subvocals were as doubtful as his words. “I can't imagine how you endure it."

Garrus shrugged, inured to conversations about Earth’s crappy weather among turians. “It’s not that bad. I’ve seen worse.” Victus had never been to Noveria.

Though the Councillor still appeared distressed, his subvocals changed to that of amusement. “I believe you said the same thing on Menae when we were flanked by brutes on all sides.”

This time, Garrus flicked his mandibles in a grin. Despite the savagery they had seen on Menae, it had been good to serve with someone like Victus. “Yeah, like I said, I’ve seen worse.”

The Councillor shifted in his seat like a man who was used to not sitting for long. Garrus could sympathise. He still hadn’t taken a seat in his own living room. “How’s the… what did that quarian girl call it?” Victus’ subvocals hummed with amusement. “The Shepard-Vakarian love nest?”

Garrus made a sound akin to dismissive, if embarrassed laughter. He was reminded of a phrase that had been applied in jest to the Kodiak several times after Jimmy had come upon a stolen moment between Steve and Alenko. _Don’t come knocking…_ “It’s rocking, as they say. Listen…” He took a breath and schooled his subvocals from wavering with nerves. Marshalling his words, he began, “I, uh, thought a lot about the offer, and I really, well, I’m honoured that you want to nominate me but I think, well, it’s just not a good time right now.”

Victus’ face and dual-vocal boxes betrayed nothing. “I see. You talked it over with her, I presume?”

Garrus shook his head as though to ward off the idea that Shepard had talked him into his decision. Victus might respect Shepard, but he didn’t admire the way she dominated Garrus’ allegiances above the Hierarchy. It was a subject neither man was willing to broach because it had served both their purposes on more than one occasion. “Well, yeah, but that’s not it. That’s not why. I just… I don’t think it’s what I want anymore.”

“I see.” The Councillor remained impassive.

Garrus shifted on his feet, feeling uncomfortably like he had displeased his first drill sergeant at boot camp. “I really appreciate it, though, you know. Like I said, I’m honoured—"

Victus cut into Garrus’ awkward recital of gratitude. “What are you planning to do?”

So entrenched with expressing his thanks to Victus, Garrus did not latch onto his meaning. “I, uh, what do you mean?” he asked uncertainly.

Victus was regarding him sharply, as though sizing up a commodity. “Continue with advising the Hierarchy? Shuttling back and forth all the time? I got the impression that you were looking for a change.”

“I am, I am,” Garrus agreed hurriedly.  “We— Shepard and I, we talked about it and we’re going to move to the Citadel.” With a sheepish shrug, he offered, “I figure C-Sec is always hiring.”

Victus’ subvocals snickered at him, though his face remained as smooth as stone. “And you think—oh, what’s that human phrase?” He sounded genuinely frustrated as he tried to think of it. “Third time’s the luck?”

For some reason, Garrus bristled at this. Sure, he didn’t have the best history with C-Sec, but he was a damned good investigator. They’d be lucky to have him back, he thought to himself. “Well, yeah, maybe. I mean, I know the job,” he added pointedly.

“And you know the limitations.” Victus still sounded amused, but he grew serious before he spoke again. “Let me ask you: what do you _want_ to do? Do you want to be a Spectre? I believe if I order you to take the nomination, you would. Do you want me to order you?”

He had feared this. Everything Victus had just said was true. And yet… Garrus realised with a certainty that he did not want to be ordered to take the job. He realised that, in the past few years, the dream of Spectrehood had outshined his actual desire for it. He felt a lingering regret for the death of the dream itself, but not his decision.

However, the steel in the Councillor’s vocals reminded Garrus just who he was talking to. The only thing that reached above the Hierarchy was the Council. And though his utmost loyalties had always lain with Shepard first, he still felt a strong, if lesser obedience toward both these institutions. He straightened from his insouciant slouch. “No, sir.”

Garrus’ sudden formality eased Victus out of his own. He leaned forward in his chair and tapped a talon on a datapad in front of him, filling the air with staccato sounds before he spoke again. “I admit, I had thought that perhaps you were turning it down for Shepard— and your family’s— objections.” The afterthought of mentioning his family was not lost on Garrus. Victus knew where his former advisor’s greatest concern would be placed.

Determined to convince Victus once and for all that this was his decision alone, Garrus hurriedly said, “No, no. They’ve all been supportive.” As he thought of how Shepard and his father had tried to hide their fears from him, to put his happiness ahead of their own trepidations, he felt a rush of affection for them both. They’d been damned supportive of him, whatever he ultimately chose to do.

Victus must have heard the warm lilt in his subvocals, or maybe he was finally assured that Garrus was confident and secure in his refusal. Perhaps he was amused by what he said next because his mandibles nearly moved in a smile. “Well, then. Do you want to go back to C-Sec?”

Abruptly, Garrus felt that familiar wave of exhaustion hit him. He dug his talons into his thigh, training his attention on the vid screen. Yet, his vocals were weary and resigned. “Not really, no.”

The Councillor tapped the datapad in front of his again, and Garrus found himself counting the clicks despite himself. “Do you like what you’re doing for the Hierarchy? Travel aside.”

Actually, Garrus loved it. He loved that he could go into a situation, tell them exactly what they were doing wrong and how to fix it, and then hand it off to competent team to handle. He loved that his advice was sought and valued, that his ideas were executed, and that he had a positive impact on the lives of those living under the Hierarchy. Not without pride, he replied, “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

Victus continued tapping thoughtfully. “Lemulik is retiring,” naming the head of the Council’s security advisors. “She’s never quite gotten over the last days of the war.” Both men were silent for a moment. The Citadel had seen horrors that both men did not even want to comprehend as it sat above Earth. Then, the Councillor looked up, appraising him once more. “Obviously, I can only put your name forward, but if you think it’s something you’d like—" 

Garrus’ heart rate sped up, in a way it hadn’t in quite some time. Excitement surged through him; eagerness and willingness flooded his vocals. “Oh yeah. Definitely.”

Victus assumed a rigid position his chair. “You’ll have to charm the other Councillors,” he warned his former advisor.

Garrus’ mandibles flickered winningly. “Well, you know, krogan women love scars.” Urdnot Helanka, an estimable sister to Bakara had assumed the newly appointed role. 

Victus levelled him a piercing look. “Eleyana and Sifisis might not be as fond of them.”

The asari and salarian Councillors would be much harder to win over. Already feeling usurped from their lofty positions in the pre-war galaxy, the addition of a krogan Councillor had left them outnumbered in votes. Victus, Helanka, and the human Councillor Itzhaki tended to vote along the same terms, though more from a similar line of thought than an actual coalition against them, as Councillors Eleyana and Sifisis truly believed.

Nevertheless, Garrus felt confident in his chances. He was more than qualified, and after all, hadn’t he learned how to enchant from the best? “There’s this word I learned from Shepard. ‘Schmooze.’ I’ll win them over with my charming personality and, if that fails, my striking good looks.” There was another phrase he liked that Jimmy had often used. “It’s in the bag.”

Victus remained impassively unimpressed. “I’m fairly certain the size of your ego was a deciding factor against the Reapers.”

Garrus’ laughter rumbled through the living room in Gamecock all the way to Victus’ office on the Citadel as he thought of the various ways he had supported Shepard during the war, quite a many times under the former Primarch’s nasal plating. “Victus, you have no idea.”


	8. An Autumn Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They held gold dust in their hands.

**Gamecock Barracks, UK, Earth, 2192**

 

Things moved swiftly after that.

Shepard was radiant with enthusiasm, encouraging in that earnest way of hers when Garrus told her about Victus’ job offer. They spent that evening on the couch, looking at progressively more and more outrageously priced apartments on the Citadel. Invigorated and energised at the new prospects of both home and job, he felt ready to agree to anything she wanted.

She never did consider the security risks involved with windows, though. It was definitely something they would discuss at length in the coming weeks.

Though Victus had warned Garrus to expect opposition from the asari and salarian Councillors, he found the interviews to go fairly well. They seemed to feel it was inevitable that a turian would end up with the job, but they did push him on his missing two years between his services on the SR-1 and SR-2 _._ Going into as little detail as possible, he worked out an explanation that he ran a private security firm on Omega. Records from Omega were hard to obtain even before the war and it wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn’t the truth, either, and it didn’t sit very well with him. In his mind, Omega was still an insurmountable failure, and though Shepard had tried to appeal to him that it wasn’t the case, the turian in him still felt responsible.

So though there were blips, there were other things in his favour. Outside of mandatory service for the Hierarchy and the six months he spent on Palaven and Menae after the Bahak incident, he had worked among a mix of species at C-Sec, with his ‘private security firm’ on Omega, and, of course, aboard the _Normandy_. He was comfortable in positions of leadership while still answering to a higher authority. And it seemed to amuse all the Councillors that he had no interest or inclination to involve himself in political machinations. His life’s work had been about protecting people— any and all people. To use his skills to serve this new galaxy— the post-war galaxy— was better than any adolescent dreams of Spectrehood. His eagerness, his drive, his dedication made up for the sins of Omega and a bent towards impulsiveness.

To Garrus’ surprise, the Alliance allowed Shepard to retire rather than resign her commission. Apparently, they actually were grateful for her years of faithful service and that feat of saving the galaxy.  And, in a fit of generosity, they rewrote history.  The Alliance reversed her AWOL and instead proclaimed her a prisoner of war for the two years she spent in a Cerberus lab and the third as their reluctant crusader. It meant that she would still receive full benefits.

The two of them had agreed that even if Garrus wasn’t offered the job with the Council, they would still move to the Citadel, but it was an unwarranted fear on his part. Word came swiftly and Garrus found himself in the unsavoury position of naming his successor as chief security officer to the Hierarchy. Though he struggled over the responsibility, he truly felt, in his gut as they say, that Obedius, his most trusted junior, would be right for the job. Still, he wavered; his failure on Omega paramount in his mind.

_“Go with your gut,” Shepard says. “Your gut is always right.”_

_“I don’t think you can get Invictrix takeout on Earth.”_

_Her mouth turns up in one corner affectionately. “Ass. You know what I mean. Your gut was right about Saren, it was right when you led the strike team at the Collector’s Base, and—” she pauses to look at him up through her lashes, “It was right about me.”_

_“Well, that one was easy. You basically just threw yourself at me.”_

_He lets the balled-up napkin she tosses at him bounce off his fringe._

So Garrus put forth Obedius for promotion and, one golden afternoon when a spicy chill permeated the air, Shepard asked him to take a walk on the wooded path toward the village.

The leaves were in a riot of colours— rust and ochre and saffron and scarlet. He thought nothing suited Shepard better than this time of year at Gamecock. With her copper hair and translucently pale skin, she looked like one of those slim, white-barked autumn trees come to life.

They made commonplace conversation for a little while. Shepard had that quiet, careful quality about her that he knew meant she wanted to say something important. But when a comfortable silence fell between them, Garrus couldn’t help but be in awe of his surroundings. Earth— or England, at least, was so different from Palaven and Menae, not to mention the Citadel, Omega, and the two _Normandys._ He found himself thinking, not for the first time, how his mother would have marvelled at the tiny, delicate blooms and sturdy, colourful trees that inhabited his current surroundings.

Even humans seemed affected by the seasons. When the temperatures were warmer and the days brought light well into the evenings, their faces turned up and their steps were light and swift. But when it was cold and bitter, and it seemed as though the sun never rose at all, their heads were bowed and their footfalls heavy and slow.

They were alone on the pathway, aside from those fearlessly forward, tiny grey-furred creatures that gorged themselves on the fallen bounty of the trees. Shepard slid her hand into his. “What are you thinking?” she asked, her face turned up to his.

Her fingers were cold, and he had an incongruous memory of how they felt like icicles when she was at the hospital in Coventry. He squeezed them, as though to reassure himself of their present underlying warmth. “You first.”

This tactic had never worked with Shepard before, so he expected a nudge to his cowl with her shoulder and words of encouragement. He didn’t think she’d stop beneath a canopy of russet foliage and start to speak.

“Deran from FAIR called me about a week ago.”

His first reaction was to groan. Deran Vin was a very rotund, very vocal volus, often seen hissing through newsfeeds as he pontificated on what he called ‘the long overdue volus seat.’ Garrus knew Shepard fervently agreed with his non-profit, FAIR or the Federation for All-Inclusive Representation. Based on the Citadel, their mission statement called for seats for all Council space species. He himself had nothing against the volus gaining a Council seat, but Deran made his plates itch with his superior, sanctimonious mugging for camera drones and bald pleas for money in a cash-strapped galaxy.

But, as Garrus looked down at her as he shifted his weight, he realised what a call from Deran would mean for Shepard. She had spent her whole life— lives— working for causes she didn’t necessarily believe in for the benefit of others. It occurred to him how amazing it would be for her to put that same kind of passion and drive toward a cause she cared so much about.

Though the low sunlight was warm, there was a definite nip in the air that threatened to become uncomfortable if they didn’t move. “Looking for a donation? I hope you told him we’re saving up for a nice, roomy hovel on the Citadel.”

Shepard smirked at him, her eyes starry with anticipation at the mention of their future home. They had, in fact, signed a shareholders’ agreement starting on the first of the next standard month on a small but airy two-bedroom. They had already argued as to whether navy was a suitable wall colour.

According to Shepard, it was absolutely not, and he let himself be persuaded into a pale blue-green shade before he realised that he was never completely immune to Shepard’s infamous charm offensive. But he did push back on her proposed wood furniture. He was so sick of the heavy look of it and insisted on something less Earth and more Palaven-inspired. Silver, he thought, would go nicely with the pastel shade he had been convinced to accept.

Garrus had never thought he would find himself arguing over paint colour, or that he would enjoy doing it so much. He had previously exited any relationship that threatened to encroach on his bachelorhood yet conversely entered this one without a place to call home— except for her. Shepard would always be his home.

Presently, she spoke, driving thoughts of paint and that oddly pleasing silver-curved furniture she showed him on the extranet out of mind. “He heard I was leaving the Alliance and thought I could lend a hand.”

“You mean lobby for them?” It was just as he guessed, and he had to admit that it would be a perfect fit.

She nodded enthusiastically, but her voice was still cautious. “I want to say yes.”

He tugged her hand to close the space between them. He hadn’t seen her this animated, this excited, in so long that he would have given her Luna if he thought it would encourage her to stay this way. Putting up with that pompous volus on occasion was nothing compared to her happiness.  “But you wanted to run it by your handsome yet brilliant boyfriend first.”

“I _do_ live with him,” Shepard conceded in a serious tone, though her mouth was stretched in a grin. “What do you think he’d say?”

Garrus tilted his head down as though to consider her solemnly. “I think he’d say that you’re very lucky you landed such a catch…” His mandibles flicked out in a grin of his own. “And then he’d remind you that you said you’d never stop fighting for what you believe in.”

She pulled him down to give him a quick kiss under the canopy of golden-red leaves. “It’s easy to believe in others with the way you believe in me.”


	9. In the Normandy SR-2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard go home.

**The Normandy SR-2 Museum and Memorial, Ground Zero, London, UK, UK, Earth, 2192**

 

There was only one last thing to do.

The little house in Gamecock was packed and labelled; the small contents of their life on Earth ready to be shipped to the Citadel on the next cargo shuttle. The haphazard furniture, the mismatched linen, even the dainty plates and unwieldy cutlery were to be left behind, donated and distributed to those struggling on the once-flourishing planet. A pale blue-green apartment with curving silver furnishings awaited them.

Shepard could use words like ‘robin’s egg’ and ‘Art Deco.’ Garrus just preferred to think of it as ‘home.’

But, in the small corner of her heart that beat the same red blood of her youth, home was Earth. She had to say goodbye.

She wavered, something he had never seen her do before, about going back to New York one last time. She hadn’t been since before —before the Citadel hung like a black pall over the skies of Earth. Before Vancouver, or the Omega-4 Relay. Before blazing over Alchera or tumbling through Ilos. She hadn’t been back since before that day on the Citadel, with cherry blossoms raining down around them, when he declared, in a voice too loud for the setting, too eager to be ignored, that something wasn’t right about Saren.

Yet, it was still the home of her childhood, the way Palaven was his. He had seen the ruination of the suburb that he, too, once called home. Before the _Normandy._ Before Shepard. It had hurt more than he had ever expected it to, and yet he didn’t love the place the way Shepard loved New York. He had counted the days until he could leave. And though her time there wasn’t always happy—was even mired in loss and misery—he wasn’t sure if she would have left, given a better choice.

There wasn’t one day when he wasn’t vehemently, selfishly thankful she had.

In the end, Shepard decided she would rather remember the city, as she never stopped calling it, the way it was before the Reapers obliterated the familiar sights and sounds she held so dearly. Instead, she talked, quite possibly more than she ever had, about her father and her life before he died. All of her physical memories were gone, lost in the same brief flare above that icy planet, but she pulled up her omni-tool and showed Garrus pictures plucked from the extranet, from before the Reapers’ hungry beams, of her favourite places. A tall, silver building that reminded him of the furniture they just bought for their new apartment.  A slim russet-bricked tower set next to a complicated tangle of road and waterways that looked out of place among the landscape of pewter and grey. A swath of green with a cluster of small, white-stoned buildings overlooking a wide river of an indiscernible colour. The storefront where, all those years ago, she spent her first paycheck on a jacket she no longer owned.

Sometimes, he thought she missed that most of all. The one thing she could hold in her hands and call home.

It wasn’t a beautiful city. It was small and cramped, crowded and grimy. It didn’t glitter like Cipritine or tempt like Omega or lure like Illium. And yet, it always had the promise of all those places and more.

When she ran out of pictures, she closed down her omni-tool and, on the couch, in his arms, told him all about her father. Though Garrus had talked and teased with her throughout the previous discussion, the dormant instinct of an investigator told him to keep quiet now. He listened, and didn’t contradict the image she built with her words of a man who was as glittering, tempting, and alluring as the city she had just described, but with none of the promise inside of him.

Always, when he thought of Shepard’s childhood compared to his own, he felt a sense of shame. He had taken for granted the privilege of a safe and happy home and twisted it into years of bitter resentment. To Shepard, her father’s glamour had been preserved with his death. She could never see his failings or shortcomings. Her father remained a sly, cunning hero in her eyes. And though she had, in her own artful way, made Garrus see that his father wasn’t the villain he often painted him as, he couldn’t bring himself to topple the pedestal of her own adoration.

It was long into the evening, with her hair in his hands, when she said, “I want to see the _Normandy_ before we go.”

The _Normandy_ SR-2 was now a museum, permanently dry-docked at Ground Zero in London, the approximate place where he was sure he had lost her forever.

Still, he understood. It had been his home, too. “Yeah. Me too.”

It was easier said than done. Arrangements had to be made for a private tour. Interviews were promised to ensure Commander Shepard, Systems Alliance Marines, retired, and Advisor Vakarian, Chief Council Security Director, could peacefully walk through the ship that meant so much to them.

The Alliance had requested that Shepard wear her dress blues, despite the fact she was newly retired. The optics, they said, would look good for morale.  Of course she agreed, but it was a crisp, bright day anyway, suited to thick clothes. The only time they had gone previously, three and half years prior when the museum was dedicated, was such a cold, grey day that the very sky seemed frozen. Shepard still had to use a cane and had been asked to lay a wreath at the site in honour of the fallen crew members of both the SR-1 and SR-2. Joker had been there under a miasma of alcohol. Before he went to rehab and turned his life around. Allers’ commentary led all the newsfeeds. Alenko and Steve came together, the former greyer, the latter happier than he had been during the war. Jimmy, with the claim of an N7 more than just a premature tattoo, looked bigger but more confident even standing next to Wrex and Grunt. Jack had even worn a coat for the occasion, but it still managed to show most of her colourful midriff. Liara dragged herself away from the power of knowledge long enough to bow her head and Tali was back in her envirosuit, but only because she was off Rannoch. Dr. Chakwas, Adams, and Traynor, all fresh from tours, looked unsteady on solid ground. Taylor brought his kid, as did Daniels and Donnelly. Even Massani made a drop after the ceremony, but then again, there was an open bar and free food.

But Lawson wasn’t there. Or Kasumi or Samara. Javik vanished. EDI and Legion would never exist in quite the same way again, for platforms could be rebuilt, but personalities could not. There were new plaques on the memorial board beneath Jenkins and Williams, Krios and Dr. Solus, Anderson and that space, since filled, where Shepard’s name almost hung.

Shepard was speaking in that calm, measured voice of hers, her hands behind her back so the reporters couldn’t see the spasmodic flexing of her fingers. A camera drone hovered by his face, focused on Shepard.

“So when are you both getting married?”

It took the strength of an entire legion to hold back Garrus’ groan, but Shepard just smiled politely. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Everything was roped off inside the CIC, from Joker’s chair to the galaxy map, and beyond. A path lit by the emergency lights in the floor made Garrus think of the pilot’s long journey to the AI core that day, so many years ago.

The Alliance provided security for the museum, and a pink-cheeked, flame-haired youth tried to look anywhere but directly at them after saluting. Shepard still— always, it seemed— smiled politely, but it faltered as they approached the cordons around the galaxy map.

If he pictured Shepard as the Commander, Spectre, Saviour— something he never really did—but if that image was called to mind, it was not her with the N7 stripe down her hardsuit or a smear of dirt across her face. It was Shepard, standing at parade rest in front of the map, watching over her crew.

She reached out, as though to touch the console, as she had done a thousand times before. The youth grew pinker, mouth open, but Shepard’s hand dropped before the private could decide whether to admonish the former captain of the ship.

Her face looked so fragile, as though the courteous serenity she had so carefully cultivated was merely a wash of lacquer across her visage. His palm yearned toward hers but instead of taking it, he quipped, “Not quite like old times, huh?”

The curve of her mouth broke the veneer, leaving a half-fond, half-exasperated look in its place. “You always talk like fighting for our lives on a daily basis was the best time you ever had.”

To this, Garrus could only smirk in that smug way of his. The one which he knew Shepard found inexplicably endearing. “Well, yeah, because it was.”

Her voice was hushed in deference to the red private as she looked up through her lashes. “What about now?”

She was being the incorrigible flirt that she always had been, but now he knew enough to sift through the coquetry and excavate the doubt.  And though he wanted to kiss her, or press his forehead to hers, there was the sentry to consider. So instead, he touched her shoulder as he led her past her abdicated throne. “Now’s even better.”

Though he had expected the wan, thoughtful curve of her smile, it was the hope in it, the aspect of Shepard he revered and admired most, that made his heart thrill in that familiar way, especially when she tilted her head so that her hair brushed his hand and said, “We did have a good time here. And Gamecock had its moments. But we’re going to make so many wonderful new memories on the Citadel, too.”

It could have been a sweet little moment. Garrus definitely saw that. But as they headed into the war room, passing another guard with a shaved umber head gleaming like a polished jewel, he couldn’t resist adding, “Wherever you go ends up being memorable, that’s for sure.”

The holo map in the war room flickered into view. They both studiously ignored it as the miniature galaxy map switched from showing resources sent per system to aid the war effort to casualties by system. The orange glow played on the copper in Shepard’s hair as she turned around. Neither of them wanted to linger in that room for long.  “Just for that, we won’t be reenacting any fond ones you have in the main battery.”

The guard remained stoic, but his eyes seemed to wish him away from the conversation he was forced to overhear. As they walked by him again on their way out, he snapped a smart salute, staring straight ahead at the roped-off, powered down QEC room as though his life depended on it.

Garrus took pity on him, waiting until they were halfway to the lift before he protested, “It was a compliment.” But the red-and-pink guard from the CIC was lying in wait. Springing forward, the sentry called the elevator as though neither of them were familiar with the system at all. Garrus had already dropped his voice and leaned closer to Shepard’s hair. “And you’ve always told me compliments get me _everywhere_.”

Shepard only smirked and shook her head, but the poor private burned crimson the entire ride to the third floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the locations Shepard shows Garrus are linked below:  
> [The Chrysler Building](https://earth.google.com/web/@40.75149527,-73.97531103,206.45591463a,359.03640401d,35y,-36.35702994h,59.99674411t,0r/data=ClYaVBJMCiUweDg5YzI1OTAyNDdjNTYzNzk6MHgxNWUxM2JlYTM4YjQzZTE4GSZ_QRw1YERAIa_L8J9uflLAKhFDaHJ5c2xlciBCdWlsZGluZxgCIAEoAg)  
> [High Bridge Water Tower](https://earth.google.com/web/search/high+bridge+tower/@40.84318469,-73.93058624,-0.53836234a,457.30469706d,35y,44.27762405h,59.99778812t,360r/data=CoMBGlkSUQolMHg4OWMyZjU2NTEyZDNiNmM5OjB4ODBkNjg4NzA5OGYxNjIzMhlPmry32GtEQCEvI6sRsHtSwCoWSGlnaGJyaWRnZSBXYXRlciBUb3dlchgCIAEoAiImCiQJDFATsw1vREARJZrya5BuREAZcCp1sGh7UsAho3KpaLV7UsA)  
> [The Cloisters](https://earth.google.com/web/@40.86475755,-73.93199298,65.99298107a,144.44794464d,35y,55.7762311h,44.99598636t,0r/data=ClYaVBJMCiUweDg5YzJmNDAxNzBmMmE2MmI6MHg5MTkxZTdmYTk1ZGYyOWFkGXTDANOzbkRAIWDy9Wuhe1LAKhFUaGUgTWV0IENsb2lzdGVycxgCIAEoAg)  
> [Rag & Bone, Christopher Street](https://earth.google.com/web/@40.7333308,-74.0047996,12.17204491a,0d,60y,239.49484585h,82.89433703t,0r/data=Ck8aTRJFCiUweDg5YzI1OWVjZWMxYTMzNTk6MHg0NDEzNDhmMzM0MzMyZjZiGSY1tAHYXURAIYRZsnRPgFLAKgpyYWcgJiBib25lGAEgASgCIhoKFmpyRnd2SHdtR29HbmNPMW9rRzMzSmcQAg)


	10. In Huri’daal’s Rug Emporium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turquoise or aquamarine?

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

“I like this one better.”

“But it doesn’t go,” Shepard said with the kind of patient tones one uses on an unruly toddler.

Huri’daal’s Rug Emporium had been going out of business for as long as Garrus was familiar with the Citadel. It survived Sovereign, a move to the Sol system and back to the Widow, and yet the quarian owner, a stubby little fellow with a much-patched suit, claimed to be liquidating his inventory year in and year out. It was a grimy store, filled to capacity with piles upon piles of natural and synthetic-fibred rugs, runners, carpets, and even an odd tapestry. There was no rhyme or reason to the place. One had to simply dig through the pungent, dusty piles in hopes of finding a treasure. Huri was always willing to knock something off the price.

The apartment had been called their home for over three standard months, yet the elusive final touch—a rug for the living room—remained out of reach. It was truly a melding of their tastes and styles, with the soft colours Shepard favoured and the metallic touches that Garrus preferred. He had a hand in refurbishing the kitchen and bathrooms, though the former remained Shepard’s domain. She somehow managed to turn out delicacies from the exorbitantly priced, still-rationed dextro supplies that the Presidium’s markets had to offer as she pored over ancient statutes and laws regarding Council seat eligibility.

Garrus was hard at work restructuring the Council’s security team. He liked Lemulik and respected the job she did in the uncertain post-war climate, but coming in with a fresh view was advantageous as tensions between the toppled salarians and asari grew. Each was desperate to retain their foothold, but the short-lived salarians were better prepared to evolve with the times than the long-lived asari.

Yet, between their busy schedules, they still found time to add the finishing touches to their apartment, even visiting galleries one day and walking away with a piece Garrus admired very much.

No one was as surprised as he was.

Never would he have thought that he would be in such a relationship. That he would be the kind of person who enjoyed shopping for home goods. Never did he think he would find it exciting to find the perfect faucet for the kitchen (the kPa was amazing) or that a day spent walking around the gallery district could be so enlivening.

And yet, here he was, exhilarated to be arguing over a rug with Shepard. Also, home décor stores made excellent places for shootouts, when he thought about it. Rug piles became excellent barriers, for instance, and cut-glass displays offered a great line of sight and spectacular shrapnel.

“The blue is brighter in this one,” he countered, leaning against the haphazard pile of woven goods behind him. When quarians still inhabited Rannoch, they had been known for their weaving of everything from rugs to fine fabrics. The art was not entirely lost during the Migration, but it was now seeing a resurgence post-war as the quarians returned home. The goods offered in the Emporium, however, were so dusty that it seemed entirely possible they predated the Morning War.

“It’s not blue, it’s turquoise, and we need something with a greener hue. The one I like has aquamarine _and_ dove in it. Don’t you see how much better it will match the walls and furniture?” The little girl who had come up to them earlier, asking for pictures on her omni-tool, was still stealing glances at them—especially Shepard. As though she couldn’t quite believe her hero occupied the same space. Shepard offered her another small smile, despite her exasperation with Garrus, and the girl flushed a delicate violet.

Garrus couldn’t help but flare his mandibles in a grin. While bickering over rugs wasn’t his preferred method of sniping, there was something pleasurable in watching Shepard not offer an immediate compromise. Honestly, it was even more satisfying than getting his way.

And then it occurred to him, in a way it had never quite struck before. He was comfortable enough to argue with Shepard and she was equally secure to answer back. They weren’t related—the idea of unconditional love and forgiveness wasn’t ingrained by blood or from birth. Instead, they forged those bonds through mutual respect, trust, and adoration. And it took time to get there. He could remember so many points in their relationship where he deferred to her rather than question her authority and she would concede to his preference rather than disturb their burgeoning bond. Now, he thought nothing of insisting on silver furniture or, in this case, a turquoise rug. And Shepard apparently felt equally safe, placing a rotund sculpture of Grigza, the krogan fertility goddess and a gift from Wrex, prominently in their living room despite his own dislike of the piece. They both knew one wasn’t going to leave the other over such minor squabbles, or even larger ones, like the ever-present discussions over the thermostat.

Nothing could change the harmony they built together, he realised as he lounged against the sour-smelling rugs. Which was why he said what he did next.

“We should get married.”

Shepard was clearly not expecting such a manoeuvre in this argument. She took a step sideways for balance, as though the words had physically jarred her. But she said, in a breath, “Okay.”

He reached out a hand to steady her, belatedly realising that proposing while propped up on a dusty pile of smelly rugs was not the most romantic thing he had ever done. “Yeah?”

She, however, didn’t seem to notice their surroundings at all. He felt her weight as he held her arm; her eyes were wide and starry as she took another quick breath. “Yeah.”

If they weren’t in the middle of Huri’daal’s Rug Emporium, he definitely would have kissed her. As it was, he took her hands and pulled her toward him. She laughed breathlessly, beaming up at him. There was nothing else in the galaxy but the two of them.

“Everything’s closed now but tomorrow morning—” He cut himself off as her face fell, like a sun moving behind a cloud. “What?”

She hesitated, her brows rushing together as she considered her words. “It’s not that I want to wait, but there’s your family and our friends and… well, I always thought we’d have a ceremony.”

They had, of course, discussed marriage many times over the years. It seemed inevitable and yet very far away. There were the Reapers and then her injuries, and it seemed that life was on hold so living could be achieved. But now there was nothing stopping them. The treatments Shepard continued to receive on the Citadel, combined with her physical therapy, were working better than the doctors had hoped. And though he still felt the rise of that insidious exhaustion and creeping fear since he took the job with the Council and they settled on the Citadel, it wasn’t consuming his life as before. But patience outside of a sniper’s perch had never been his strong suit and though it took him years to reach this place, he didn’t want a wait a second longer.

Yet, Shepard truly wanted so little. Turians typically registered with Hierarchy rather than staging elaborate ceremonies, but he knew it was important to her and he knew it would have meant a lot to his mom to honour some of her traditions as well. It would be nice to stand up there with his dad and Sol and see those old faces of the crew again.

“Well, if you insist, I think I can wait.”

That resplendent smile returned—not the one that softly curved her mouth, but the one that made her eyes sparkle like twin stars. “Yeah?”

The way it deepened when he grinned back made him wish they were home. “Definitely, yeah.”

It was true what they say. Great minds do think alike, because she squeezed his hands and said without taking her eyes off of him. “Then pay for the turquoise one and let’s get out of here.”

It would be the last victory in decorating he would have for a very long time.


	11. The News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castis and Solana come over for dinner.

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

At Shepard’s urging, Garrus invited his dad and Sol over for dinner the very next evening. It was always easy to say yes to Shepard, but it was especially so after everything that happened once they got home from Huri’daal’s.

Garrus knew the rug would marry the living room and dining area perfectly.

Construction was a constant when dealing with the rapid transit system, even six years after the Crucible. Between rationing resources such as eezo and electricity, it was a wonder they ran close to schedule at all. For all his delay, however, Garrus arrived home to find Shepard in a flurry of activity in the kitchen.

“What’s all this?”

It seemed every available surface was covered in some delectable dish of dextro cuisine. The oven and stove wafted more enticing scents as Shepard sorted through shiny new cutlery and dishes to set the table in the dining area. She had that look of fierce concentration he was so familiar with, as though she were calculating how to decimate the knives and plates rather than merely set the table. Anxiety radiated off of her like the heat from the stove.

Without sparing him a glance, she said in the same tone she used to breach a bunker, “Your family will be here in ten minutes. Go get changed.”

Garrus spied a plate of scintillating _catillaminis_ , fresh from the oven. But as he reached for one, Shepard swatted his hand away.

He followed her to the table as she began to lay places. “Relax, Shepard. It’s just my dad and Sol.” He could feel the tension in her shoulders as he bent to kiss her hello, only managing to get a quick peck on the mandible for his pains. “Unless you invited the quarian coalition from FAIR. You cooked enough.” When that earned him a hint of a smile, he wondered aloud, “Aren’t we still under rationing?”

She smirked without lifting her head from her task, but her voice much less sharp than it had been before. “Go put your navy top on with the pants that go. I hung them up together. They’ll be here soon.”

He didn’t like the apprehensive set of her jaw, or how tightly she held her shoulders even as she gracefully laid the silverware. Dropping his voice to a purr in an effort to tease more than seduce, he said, “I thought you told me that looked better _off.”_

Sometimes, gambles don’t pay off. Her voice rang out in a jangle of nerves, “Garrus, now!” It was uncanny how that order came out exactly as it had when they raided that Blue Suns base on Sanctum.

“Yes ma’am!” had been his response on Sanctum, too, come to think of it.

By the time he stowed his side piece and changed out of his work gear, the odour of roasting meat pervaded even the bedroom. It was touching, really, how much effort Shepard put into this dinner, but he knew her anxiety was unwarranted. His dad and Sol would be thrilled by the news. They had certainly harangued him enough in the past about ‘popping the question’ as Sol called it, having watched an inordinate amount of human romance vids during her recuperation.

The door chimed as he made his way back into the kitchen. Shepard shot him a pleading look to answer it as she hastily smoothed down her own outfit. Somehow, she appeared immaculate, as though impervious to food stains and crumbs in a way she had never been with blood and ashes.

“Garrus,” Castis thrust a bottle of wine in his son’s hand as he greeted him before crossing into the kitchen to shake Shepard’s hand. Though his father had worked with humans for decades, he had never quite mastered the varying degrees of affection they were wont to show each other. Castis considered handshakes to be a safe bet all around and employed them every time he saw Shepard. “My dear girl, it smells delicious in here.”

For her part, Shepard never seemed offended. In fact, she smiled her thanks and led him into the living room.

Sol followed her father after greeting her brother and Shepard, the latter having divested father and daughter of their jackets. Energy rationing on the Citadel made it cooler than before the war, and turians found themselves chilled in common areas. The apartment was more than warm, however, with the thermostat set as high as Garrus could afford without being fined for appropriation and the heat from the kitchen pouring into the open-plan apartment. The kitchen, dining area, and living room all occupied one warm-temperatured, cool-hued space. 

“Is that a new rug?” Sol asked as Castis motioned to the wine Garrus was placing on the dining table.

“I bought the finest bottle of dual-chirality wine I could find.” Turians were never any good at whispering. Their voices were too resonant; their dual-vocal chords too strident. But Castis made an effort to lower his voice in conspiratorial tones. “It was quite inexpensive, actually.”

Shepard made a muffled, choking sound from the small closet by the door where they kept their coats and jackets. Before Castis could speak again, Garrus crossed to his dad and sister where they stood clustered around the low, silver-mirrored table that sat between the leather couch and twin chairs. “Thanks, Dad. Yeah, Sol, we got it yesterday.”

“It’s so nice and bright,” Sol enthused to Shepard as she finally joined them. 

But though Shepard stood still for a moment, her words came out in a rush, as though she had to dissipate her nervous energy in some fashion. “Thank you so much for the wine, Castis. Sol, you look great. Won’t you both sit?” And then she patted Sol’s brightly-coloured arm affectionately before she darted back into the kitchen for wine glasses.

Garrus frowned as he noticed how stiffly Shepard was beginning to move as she reached up in a high cabinet for the cut-crystal glasses Castis himself had given them when they moved in. But before he could make a move to help her, his father manoeuvred him to join himself and Sol on the couch. “What a lovely rug!”

Garrus’ eyes caught Shepard’s as she carried the glasses to the table. He couldn’t help putting in, rather pointedly, “I picked it out.”

Castis said to Shepard, who was smothering a smile as she headed back to the kitchen once more, “I always thought this one here had a good eye for colours. Rather like his old man.”

Castis was wearing a suit of verdant green with fuchsia trim. It was quite striking, Garrus thought, but he could tell from the way Shepard’s mouth twitched, subtle as it was, that she felt otherwise.  “Here, I know you like these,” she said as she placed the dish of _catillaminis_ , now cool enough to eat, on the mirrored table. “I found the recipe on the extranet, so if they aren’t exactly right…”

All three Vakarians eagerly partook of the delicacies, though Garrus vaguely wondered if Shepard remembered to cook for herself or if she was going to defrost one of her packages of white grains from the freezer.

“Nonsense, dear. They look lovely.” And to prove his point, Castis took another bite and swallow of his. “And taste so too.”

“They really are good, Shepard,” Sol put in, taking a napkin Shepard offered her. Garrus had an urge to hook his fingers through one of Shepard’s belt loops so she might stay in one place, preferably close to him.

But it was Castis who said, “My dear, won’t you sit? We feel like pampered pyjacks just watching you.”

She hesitated, and in it Garrus saw an opening, drawing her close to his side. She perched halfway on the arm of the couch, as though she couldn’t bear the actual commitment of seating herself, especially when there were guests to cater. He thought of how, on the _Normandy_ SR-1, she had always balanced her weight on one foot, ready to flee. He had attributed it to self-defence, then. A wariness she carried about her from the streets. Now, though, he knew this was purely anxiety. Rather than prolong it, and because he couldn’t stand to wait any longer himself, he cleared his throat and began, “Well, yesterday—”

Sol was already speaking, however, her eyes still on the turquoise woven stuff under her feet. “Where did you get it? My room is so dull. I could use something cheerful in it.”

Even by turian standards, Sol’s room was loudly colourful. Garrus saw Shepard’s hand flexing out of the corner of his eye and sought to still it in his grip. For once, her fingers were warm from handling hot food. “Oh, uh, Huri’daal’s Rug Emporium.”

Sol’s merry laughter chimed through the heavily-scented air. “That’s still open? I think they were going out of business before Dad retired.”

Castis turned to his daughter and said kindly, but firmly, “Darling, I think your brother was trying to say something.”

Shepard gripped Garrus’ hand as he fidgeted in his seat. Her nerves were beginning to spread to him, after all his certainty. “Oh, yeah, well, it’s just—"

“You’re getting married,” Sol announced triumphantly, bouncing from her seat on the couch. She seemed delighted to have discovered this first, as there were three former law enforcement agents in the room, two of whom were detectives.

Castis clapped his hands together with joyous vindication. “I knew it! Didn’t I tell you,” he said, turning quickly to Sol, “On the way over, I said ‘They must finally be getting married.’”

Then, suddenly, Castis leaned over and pressed his brow to his son’s. Shepard stood, rather than be unseated as Garrus startled from the action. In an instant, Sol grabbed Shepard’s free hands and heaved herself off the couch. “How did he do it? Was it like the vids? Spirits, Shepard, where’s your ring? Didn’t he get you a ring? I’ve seen all the vids. You’re supposed to get her a ring!” The last was said in an accusatory fashion to her older brother, who was grinning rather sheepishly at the two women.

Shepard was smiling in that sparkling way of hers, first at Sol, and then at Garrus, who nearly matched it with his own widely-spread mandibles. “It was very romantic. I promise,” she assured Sol. “Vids couldn’t compare.”

Castis rose as well, gently loosening Sol’s grip of Shepard’s fingers. “Darling, you’re hurting her hands.” With a sigh of satisfaction, Castis began, “Oh, my dear, finally. I can’t tell you how very happy I am.” And then, to everyone’s surprise, he drew Shepard into a hug, made all the more awkward as he had never attempted one before.

Sol tugged on Garrus’ fringe playfully until he stood up. “You know you have to get her a ring, right? It’s in all the vids.”

She spoke with such authority that Garrus’ grin only grew wider still. “Yeah, Sol, I know.” He bent down and bumped his brow lightly against hers.

The oven started to chime incessantly from the kitchen.  Shepard seemed to hesitate for a moment, then quickly kissed Castis on the mandible and announced, “That should be the _colepii_.”

Castis stood stock-still, mandibles drooped, as though starstruck, while Shepard dashed rigidly back into the kitchen.

The two siblings watched their father with amusement, but then Sol suddenly turned to Garrus. “Wait. If you bought the rug yesterday, when did you propose?”

Thankfully, Shepard was having trouble getting the roast out of the oven and Garrus was quick to go to her aid.

Sol made an unhappy sound, as though every dream she had was suddenly dashed. “Oh Shepard, it wasn’t like a vid at all, was it?”

Having safely secured the roast on a trivet, Shepard admitted, “Well, not exactly.” But then she turned her face up to Garrus’ with that glowing grin. “It was better.”

Garrus caught her around the waist before she could move another muscle. He wasn’t very good at whispering, either, but he tried. “Thanks for having my six.”

Though the kiss she gave him was brief and demure compared to their usual private displays of affection, it was worth it.  Her relief was palpable through the caress, after the maelstrom of anxiety and activity that she had been caught up in since he arrived home ebbed away. “Anytime, big guy.”

 


	12. The Jacket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus makes a significant purchase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part one of a two-part chapter. Part two will be posted next week.

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

Shepard never said a word about a ring, but it was all Garrus could think about.

He had always loved her hands. Long ago, he had thought human and asari extra appendages to be unnerving and useless. But soon after he joined the _Normandy_ , Shepard had gathered the entire ground crew to review universal hand signals. He stood in the back, watching with arrogant insouciance, as he knew such signs from C-Sec. But her hands were so graceful, so fluid. Her long, finely articulated fingers transfixed him, and he thought, for the first time, that maybe the extra digits weren’t superfluous after all.

A ring— his ring— would accentuate their beauty, but he couldn’t find one he liked. The bands seemed too plain, too insignificant. The solitary gems seemed too cold and impersonal, like twinkling stars rather than the sunny affection she shone on him. He found himself drawn to large, ostentatious rings that seemed to proclaim to the galaxy at large that this woman— this amazing, confounding, precious woman was taken— by him. But he couldn’t picture Shepard wearing them with ease.

The search consumed him during off-hours at work. He ducked out, presumably to get lunch, though his assistant, a weary matron who seemed to both begrudge her job and sit in judgement of him, looked down her nose at such practices. Instead, he quickly disposed of a protein bar and lingered over the glittering displays of jewels that lined the Citadel’s so-called diamond district.

Sol tried to help. She sent him links for all kinds of rings. Gargantuan stones as blue as a Thessian sea, modest gems as green as Earth’s forests.

None of them were right.

Then one day, just as the night cycle was approaching, Garrus found a rare opportunity to leave work early and head home. Only he found the nearest rapid transit station was closed for conserving resources. He would have to walk to the nearest running stop, some several blocks away.

The path wasn’t especially crowded, as it was too early for rush hour, and Garrus found himself looking at the storefronts with interest. The Upper Wards had always been more affluent, but this was a particularly upscale, consumer-driven area. The news screens here ran on about the volus cutting interest rates rather than the water shortage in Zakera Ward. Well-dressed men and women of all species strolled by expensive shops with equally expensive purchases dangling defiantly from their arms, as though the designer labels might act as shields against the gruelling struggle others still faced. Oddly, however, a store up ahead looked vaguely familiar, though he wasn’t sure why.

The shop was furnished in faux-reclaimed wood and blackened steel, as though embracing an earthly industrial aesthetic. But leather jackets and block-heeled boots, all in soft, muted blacks and greys, were displayed with a minimalistic eye.

He stepped closer and saw the name of the store. That was why it looked so familiar. It was almost identical to the storefront Shepard had shown him from New York. The home of her favourite jacket, now lost.

He walked inside.

A very tall, very thin human with darkly opaque skin and a mane of brilliantly white hair approached him. “Let me know if I can be of any help today. Just ask for Humphrey.” His silvery eyeshadow caught the light.

Garrus didn’t hesitate. “Actually, yeah. I’m looking for something specific.”

He had wanted to get a mod for his new service piece. His baby, the Widow, didn’t see as much action as it had in the past. Shepard would go with him to the range if he asked, but she wouldn’t hold a gun anymore. The last time she tried, her hands shook so badly that she didn’t trust herself to squeeze off a shot.

He didn’t understand, exactly. Garrus knew war marked everyone differently, so he didn’t push it either. Shepard was the same person as she had been before the war and some scars, emotional or physical, weren’t going to change that or the way he felt about her.

The mod could wait.

 

* * *

 

 

He held the package like a bomb. Several pedestrians he passed, both human and asari, eyed the label with such blatant interest that he felt as inconspicuous as a hanar at a surprise party.

It knocked between his knees on the trip home as he wondered how, exactly, to give it to Shepard. And then he realised he meant to message her. He sent a quick one from his omni-tool, apologising as he inadvertently elbowed the salarian next to him.

G: Let’s order in tonight.

S: Sure. What time?

G: Got out early. Decide when I get home?

S: Okay. See you soon.

He and Shepard never sent messages, or pictures for that matter, that would be a headline if one of them were hacked. But she did send him two symbols that she swore meant ‘I love you.’ He didn’t see how; it was lost in translation, but it always made his mandibles flutter. 

When he got home, Shepard was sitting in the overstuffed leather club chair she called ‘hers’, a pile of datapads in her lap and a frown on her face. “Hey, big guy.” She didn’t look up from the one she was reading.

Garrus hadn’t exactly expected her to run up and demand to see the contents of his package, but he also hadn’t planned for her not to notice it at all. Uncertainly, he set it down by the door and went to the closet to hang up his jacket and lock up his gun. When that was accomplished, and Shepard was still glowering over whatever it was she read, he found himself a little put out. With a laugh, he called out, “Hey, let me breathe when I come into a room.”

She blew out a breath, only sparing him a distracted glance. “I’m sorry, it’s just these articles…”

“Which one?” He glanced down at the package in its matte black carrier bag. It looked glaringly out of place among the pale décor

“Take your pick.” She held up the datapad in her hand and waved it like a flag. “Either you’re using me for Hierarchy gains or you’re only with me out of obligation.” Though her mouth was twisted in wry deprecation, he heard the real strain of concern in her voice.

He had seen those articles, too. One was a so-called hard-hitting piece from a two millennia old asari rag that asked: Sleeping with the Beneficiary: Can Shepard be impartial with a turian boyfriend? It argued that she joined FAIR to further turian interests, as volus were the client-race of the Hierarchy. A splashier tabloid screamed: ‘Scamalot! Is the Shepard-Vakarian romance just a fairy tale? That one cited a turian ‘body language expert’ and ‘sources close to the pair’ who swore that he only felt respect and duty toward Shepard, and the idea of a romance between them was an elaborate PR stunt to strengthen human-turian relations.

He just never thought Shepard would take notice of either stupid article.

A part of him wanted to go to her, to reassure her of his love for her and his pride in her work. But a louder, more persistent piece of him wanted her to notice the damn package at his feet. “It’s gotta be a slow news cycle if we’re all they can talk about.”

She flung the datapad on the low table in front of the couch and scooped the remaining ones out of her lap. Standing, she began to stack them on the low table with military precision. Her hair briefly concealed her face from him.  “I know. I just don’t want this to undermine the campaign. The volus have been members of Council space for two thousand three hundred ninety years. They deserve a seat. And…” There was hesitation in her voice, as though she feared what she said next had already come to pass.  “You don’t need this at work.”

Garrus forgot about the bag and the contents inside, crossing the room to brush her bright hair away from her familiar features so he could see her clearly.  “Hey. You know Victus doesn’t care about stuff like this. Neither does Helanka. You’re the reason we’re all here.”

A frown clouded her features with equal parts annoyance and dismissal. “Don’t say that. I didn’t do this alone and you know it.”

He was not so easily dissuaded, however, but he did allow, “Well, you had a little bit of help.” And just to tease that frown into a smile, he drawled, “ _Handsome_ help, I might add.”

It worked. Despite herself, the corner of her mouth turned up and she gave him a playful shove. “You’re such a—" Suddenly, she broke off, staring wide-eyed over his shoulder. Her voice took on a strange but deliberate quality. “What is that?”

He half-turned as though he had absolutely no idea what she meant. Her eyes darted between the bag and him, uncertainty and suspicious delight flickering in them. He tried to sound nonchalant, but his flickering mandibles gave away what his subvocals silently screamed. “Oh. That. I don’t know. Open up and see.”

“Garrus…” It was almost as though she was scolding him, and yet she advanced on the black bag with the kind of euphoric hesitance one has when approaching a relic. Shepard didn’t grow up with the casual privilege he had. She hadn’t simply expected new boots and vids, toy skycars and targeting equipment every year. She had treated the dainty necklace he had gotten her during the war like the finest jewels that had ever decorated the High Dalatrass Dinor of legend. The chain had broken when medics in London had removed her armour, but they saved the damaged piece with her personal effects. The repair was too fine for Garrus to accomplish with his bulky tools, but a few years ago he surprised her with the necklet once more, newly mended after a trip to the Citadel.

Shepard never took it off.

Now, she lifted the jacket out of the tissue paper wrappings almost reverently. She held it up, looking between him and the jacket with an expression he couldn’t parse.

“I—" he rubbed the back of his neck and the words came out in a rush. “Your hands are always cold and I figured this would keep you warmer than a ring. You know, when I’m not around to do it. But if you want a ring, we can do that. I mean—"

Her voice was as thick as the scent of fine leather in the air. “It’s perfect.”

“Yeah?” His subvocals were so high that he cringed but she broke out that dazzling smile of hers. It made him forget that he ever doubted his choice.

“Yeah.” The jacket was still held so carefully in her hands; an object of veneration.

They might have stood like that forever, him in awe of her reverence for an object that symbolises their mutual devotion to each other. He swallowed and said, “Well, put it on. Let me see.”

Her long, slender hands stroked the leather for a moment before she carefully shrugged it on. “How does it look?”

The soft black highlighted the clear pallor of her skin, the copper-gold of her hair, the patina-green and pewtery flecks of her eyes. Her mouth was curved up in that way he loved so much. That secret smile only he was privy to see.

She was so familiar, so dear, so stunning that he felt as though he had stared into a sunset for too long. “I guess it’s okay.”

That smile became suddenly mischievous. “Just okay? Hold on.”

“Shepard?”

But she had disappeared into the bedroom.


	13. Teal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus and Shepard debate colours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing from last week's installment, this chapter contains sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

“Shepard?” he called again, but there was no answer from the bedroom.

Well, she had probably gone to admire her new jacket in the mirror. The last vestiges of concern washed away as Garrus cleaned his hands at the sink in the kitchen. He thought Shepard would like it, but rings were traditional and though she was surprisingly if undoubtedly conventional— for a girl who was marrying a turian, that is— she had really seemed to love it.

“So what do you feel like tonight?” he called from the kitchen, pulling up his omni-tool. He was craving Taetrix cuisine, but the place Shepard usually ordered in from was closer to the Macedynian restaurant that did an _agninus_ _quum_ _capsicum_ dish he liked.

Still standing by the sink, Garrus peered at the amber interface of his omni-tool. But another, far more captivating image caught his eye from the space between him and the living room.

Shepard always knew where to find the light. The jacket, slipped off her shoulder, revealed a gleaming expanse of enticing flesh, uninterrupted but for the slenderest of straps. Suspended from it hung an abbreviated swath of fabric, sheer except where a geometric pattern cut tempting angles, evocative of the idea that her skin was tattooed with stylised markings.

“That’s—” He swallowed hard and shifted his stance a little wider. His plates suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. He didn’t see the blemishes of scars or softer lines of unsculpted flesh. To him, she was water in the desert and oxygen beneath the sea. “What colour is that?”

The corner of her mouth was turned up as she ran a finger across her collarbone. “Guess.”

Garrus tilted his head to the side, considering his answer, as though he didn’t follow the movement with eager eyes. “It’s not blue.”

“No,” her smile deepened as he took several steps towards her. The light from the living room made the sheer fabric transparent and the way the jacket draped off her shoulder highlighted the sharp clavicles he loved so much.

“It’s not green,” he reasoned, as though he gave a damn.

She waited for him to close the space between them; her words a warm breath against his mandible. “It’s teal.”

His talons traced a path along her exposed skin from jaw to throat to collarbone, stopping to toy with the foolish, slender strap that interrupted the line of her shoulder. “Teal.”

Her eyes, which fluttered shut, opened to reveal a dark, lustrous colour that rivalled the shade they pretended to debate. “Yes,” she whispered, her mouth almost touching his own.

It wasn’t a gentle, hesitant kiss, but one borne of a hunger that is never satisfied; a fire that never burns to an end. She always kissed with her entire body; soft, warm flesh pressing against his harder, sharper angles, wedding the conflicting shapes into something unique and solely their own.

With like-minded, singular purposefulness, they ended up on the couch without breaking the kiss. Shepard, in his lap, a knee on either side of his hips; Garrus’ hands slipping up under the teal chemise, the pile of the opaque fabric almost as soft as her thighs. Up further they lingered, over the velvety globes of her ass, the flare of her hips and the sharp bones beneath, until his talons settled over the reassuring scar tissue along her spine. He understood now why she favoured the rough skin of his ruined mandible and rained so much attention upon the damage. It wasn’t a sign of failure, as he so often had thought, but proof of life. She was alive.

As she began to unfasten his shirt, he dipped his head to lick that tantalising, taunting arc her collarbone made. Shepard would not be so easily distracted, however. Her fingers found those gaps between his cowl and keel plates, that spot beneath his fringe, the sueded skin of his sensitive waist.

Garrus bit down gently, gently, oh-so-gently, on the bone itself, tugging lightly until she gasped and her hands faltered into feathering touches. But instead of leaning her head back and letting him take over, as she was wont to do, she slid her hands from his waist to his pants.

Shepard’s fingers flew swiftly, dividing the fabric, diving inside and dancing over his parting plates. His eyes shut as his own head fell back, his fringe brushing against the back of the couch. He meant to interrupt her ministrations and suggest a more suitable location for such a dalliance, but then he was out of his plates, hot and hard in her hand, and he thought he’d let her have her way for a little while.

But soon, all too soon, he was thrusting into her adroit fingers, gasping for air. In an abrupt move, he lifted his head and caught her wrists, pulling her hands away before the temptation to finish grew too great. “Maybe we should move this to the bedroom.” His words were breathy, his heart still hammering. If his leg ever twinged from her weight in his lap, he never felt it.

She leaned forward without pulling out of his grip, pressing her breasts against his carapace as she whispered into the sensitive hide of his throat, “Don’t you dare move.”

He fought not to expose his neck further, even though his hands left hers to find their way back underneath her slip and the satiny skin there. “You sure? You’re not going to thank me in the morning.” He stroked her spine as he said it, for the moment distracted enough to worry about the strain on her back, if not his own old injury. Shepard could take care of herself, but he sometimes liked to remind her that she didn’t have to do it alone.

Shepard, however, was clearly not worried in the least. Her lips and teeth and tongue assaulted the thin hide of his neck and throat, but damnably avoided the one very spot that drove him absolutely crazy. “Yes, I will. I promise. I’ll be very, very thankful tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Garrus huffed out as she began to move her hips, gliding over, but never quite touching, his eager length. And then her mouth found that spot.

He couldn’t take it anymore. His hands gripped her hips and pulled her down as he ground against her, revelling for a brief while in the momentary relief. But for all the time she let him have his way, she just as quickly pulled away.

This time, he threw his head back out of frustration more than pleasure. “I think Grigza’s watching us,” he drawled as the ugly krogan fertility statue caught his eye. Shepard’s mouth had been curved in a teasing, conspiratorial smile—as though he needed a hint that she was up to something—but now it turned into a full-fledged grin.

She leaned over him, the peaks of her breasts the only flesh brushing his carapace as she breathed softly, “Then let’s give her a show.”

He sat up, their mouths finding each other with the crushing swiftness of a skycar crash. But before he could push her into his lap again, she took him in hand. He broke away, carapace heaving as she slowly, slowly guided him into her.

He pressed his forehead against her throat as she gasped. This was her favourite moment, he knew. When they were as one, and she could feel the weight of him inside her, the bulk of him filling her. He didn’t move, though he ached to do so, but let her savour it as even their breathing seemed to come from one body.

She moved first, her hands finding their way beneath his fringe, urging his head to hers. As she pressed her forehead to his, he began to rock into her slowly. Her fingers grew rougher, needier, with each thrust, but he knew it wasn’t enough.

With a practiced motion, his talons slipped between them, easily finding their slick destination. It was as though all of her heat was consolidated here, where they were joined, and he wanted to linger and dwell in her warmth forever. But she was saying his name in that way, the way that made it seem like the holiest of words, like he was the most precious of beings.

He watched as her face became transfixed in passion and pleasure. He waited until she kissed his nasal plating, his mandibles, his mouth, until her lips found that special spot on his throat.

And then he let go.

He grew aware again, of the soft weight of her head against his cowl and the heavy scent of leather and ecstasy invading his senses. With an economical movement, he pressed his mouth against her hair. “I guess you liked the jacket.”


	14. More of The News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrus gets a very important text message.

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

The night they told his dad and Sol, in the pastel and stainless steel kitchen overflowing with detritus from the dinner party, Shepard had suddenly grown quiet. She hated doing dishes, and since she had cooked all day and hosted his family, Garrus felt loading the dishwasher was the least he could do. But as he slotted the plates and organised the glasses by size, Shepard finally said, “I’m sorry your mom couldn’t be here tonight.” Garrus recognised that soft but matter-of-fact quality her voice took on when discussing delicate matters, even as far back as the hunt for Saren.

He was sorry, too, though he wondered exactly how happy his mom would have been to hear the news. She had worked on Palaven as a botanist before she fell ill and had very little to do with other species. He knew that she would have been happy if he married Rena, his old girlfriend from his days as a detective at C-Sec. Lavinia had hinted such a union more than once and had even kept in touch with his ex long after they had broken up, peppering vid calls with updates on her as though to remind Garrus what he was missing. His mom seemed to think that if he settled down in marriage, maybe he would settle into his life on the Citadel, too. Instead of leaving everything behind to chase after Spectres.

With a long look, he considered Shepard, who seemed deeply interested in the suds soaping the sink he had so recently replaced when they revamped the fixtures after moving in. The stainless steel backsplash hazily reflected her downcast countenance. His mom wouldn’t have been happy that she was human. Lavinia didn’t resent humans; she only fretted about her son making decisions that complicated his life. But she would have come around. He knew that. Especially at the chance of getting grandchildren, adopted or otherwise. Without thinking it first, he pondered aloud, “I wonder what your dad would have thought of me.”

Garrus could tell by her abrupt laugh that she had been thinking of her father, too. Another lost parent who had kept strictly to his small world and not ventured into the broader galaxy. Her smile grew wistful. “He would have been happy that I was happy.”

He understood what she meant. There would have been disappointment but acceptance. Their parents, no matter their faults, had loved them both deeply in their own way. He took another dish from the sudsy basin of the sink and fitted it away. “Yeah, my mom, too.”

Sorrow tarnished some of the joyousness. There were loved ones they couldn’t share the news with; old crewmembers and teammates they couldn’t message.  But there were more friends, alive and thriving, who would delight to hear it.

A few days after Garrus came home with the leather jacket, Shepard was fidgeting in front of her terminal in the second bedroom they called her office, though his workbench was in there as well. The sight mod he had forgone was well-missed as he tinkered with the pistol he carried for work. The problem was more than a mod, however. It was that it would never be a rifle. As much as he liked his new job— loved it, actually— he longed for his trusty Widow. She only saw action when he managed to get some target shooting in at the C-Sec Academy’s tactical range, which was also opened to Council security agents and advisors. More often than not, though, she was oiled up and on his workbench.

“How does this work?” Shepard asked, interrupting his thoughts. “Casually drop it into each conversation when I reply to emails? ‘Hey, Jimmy, glad to hear that raid on eezo bandits went well. By the way, Garrus and I are getting married.’”

“You could just tell Joker. He’ll spread the word.”

Shepard tapped a tune just slightly off rhythm out with her fingers next to the console.  “I don’t know how he got the reputation as _Normandy_ gossip. Jeff doesn’t spread the stories; he just keeps an ear out for them.” There was a pause before she added softly, “Kasumi was the gossip.”

Shepard missed the romantic thief perhaps most of all, though she never voiced such thoughts aloud. Garrus pinched his mandibles close to his face as he tried to tighten a screw. “Well, I think the thing to do is send a mass email. Tell everyone at once how lucky you are to be marrying me.”

“‘The thing to do?’” she quoted back at him. Her voice lightened in amusement.  “You say that like you’ve done this before.”

Garrus couldn’t hold back a flaring grin. “There, there. Don’t be jealous. You’re the one getting me.”

So Shepard sent the email; a finely crafted piece of wordsmithing that was met with such replies as ‘lol, bout time fuckers’ to ‘better late than never, I always say’ and ‘knew you had it in you, Shepard.’ Wrex never had any faith in him.

 

* * *

 

 

Tali was the first to message him directly, his omni-tool buzzing on the crowded, cramped Rapid Transit shuttle to work.

 **T** : A rug store? Really?

She must have badgered Shepard for details first. He fired off a quick reply, feeling somewhat defensive, especially after Sol’s similar reaction. Shepard hadn’t complained, after all.

 **G** : It was a classy rug store!

 **T** : Huri’daal’s was going out of business when I was hiding from Saren!

Before he could tap out a response, his ‘tool buzzed again.

 **T** : Shepard didn’t send me any pics. What kind of ring did you get her? Isn’t that what humans do?

Garrus scoffed, earning him a slow glance from the dead-eyed asari slumped onto the bench next to him. She had the exhausted, beleaguered look of an unpaid intern. His mandibles flickered briefly in sympathy, but she didn’t seem to notice.

 **G** : Like you haven’t seen all the vids.

Tali was even worse than Sol when it came to those kind of vids. She had given him the idea to take Shepard to the top of the Presidium. Made him watch the entire scene from _Fleet and Flotilla_ three times.

It did have a good soundtrack, though.

 **T** : So what does it look like?

 **G** : I didn’t get her one.

He tucked his mandibles against his face and braced himself for Tali’s wrathful response.

 **T** : Why didn’t you get her a ring before you proposed?!

There it was. His omni-tool’s vibrations seemed manifested from Tali’s outrage itself.

 **G** : It was spur of the moment.

The shuttle began to slow as it approached the governmental district of the Kithoi Ward, near the Council Central Archives. The Presidium was little more than a gaping hole in the Citadel now. Gone were the cherry trees that rained blossoms and brought forth a new life for him as he stood under them, arguing with Pallin. Those gentle branches that ushered in an end to the daily drudgery at C-Sec, the constant second-guessing of his instincts, and questions of his ability to lead. The blooms, as fragile-looking but as resilient as the woman who dared plucked them that fateful day.

 **T** : You’ve been dating for a decade! How spur of the moment could it be?

The shock of the buzzing ‘tool knocked him back into the present. He typed hastily as he queued to disembark. A volus waddled in front of Garrus, squeezing between the bleary-eyed salarian drooped sideways against a stanchion before him.

 **G** : Eight years one hundred twenty four days, actually.

His ‘tool alerted him twice of new messages, but he couldn’t glance at it until he was off the shuttle and out of the station. As he headed to the Council offices, he managed to read them and enter a quick reply.

 **T** : That would be romantic if you weren’t such a _bosh’tet_.

 **T** : So when are you going to get her a ring?

 **G** : I got her a jacket.

His assistant, Uliya, was inherited from Lemulik, Garrus’ predecessor. She was a muddy-blue asari nearing matron-stage and resentful about it. She didn’t deign him with so much as a glance as the door cycled open. “Messages on your terminal.”

“Right. Thanks,” Garrus sighed. It didn’t matter how charming he was to Uliya; she made up her mind not to like him. Shepard had advised him to ‘kill’ her with kindness, because, after all, he did have to work with her. But Garrus felt irritation bubbling to his tongue every time she gave him one of her scornful looks or relayed a message in that bored-yet-superior tone of hers.

At his desk, he fired up his console and checked the last message Tali sent.

 **T** : A jacket? Is that a turian thing?

 **G** : No, it’s a Shepard thing.

Tali couldn’t see the stupid, fond flicker of his mandibles and, thankfully, neither could Uliya. 

Another reply came through as he was bypassing his own security measures to access his main screen. He glanced at his wrist and felt himself grinning.

 **T** : I can’t believe she didn’t dump you because you got her a jacket. I hope it’s a nice one.

 **G** : Your faith in our relationship is touching.

His good cheer was dampened by a priority blue message flashing in his inbox. It seemed that death threat made to the asari Councillor, Eleyana wasn’t as far-fetched as they thought. Initially, his team had dismissed the overtly graphic emails sent to her as the rantings of a disturbed mind still bitter over the asari’s inaction during the war. Yet now it seemed the human had a history of grievous bodily harm, the records previously sealed as a juvenile on New Canton.  His omni-tool buzzed without answer for quite some time as he quizzed his team about the oversight and made contact with Eleyana’s personal detail. As he waited on hold with C-Sec, he managed a hasty response.

 **T** : Otherwise she’s going to ask to borrow my shotgun and no one wants that.

 **G** : She loves it. Go ask her.

Either Shepard took a while in replying to Tali or Garrus lost track of time as he advised Eleyana’s team to tighten protocol and began to delegate possible countermeasures, but it was a while before he realised he had a new response on his omni-tool. Distractedly, he read it and replied in turn.

 **T** : She looks really happy. I guess you did something right.

 **G** : Thanks.

Sarcasm was so hard to relay through text messages, he mused. But Tali wasn’t like a little sister to only Shepard, though. She could easily get under his plates the way Sol always did, too. Her parting shot had him glaring irately at his wrist while his inbox flickered impatiently.

 **T** : Anyway, I have irrigation pipes to calibrate. And you know how hard it is to stop in the middle of calibrations.

 **G** : I hate you.


	15. In the Afternoon Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a lazy Citadel afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains depictions of chronic pain and some talk of mental illness.

**The Citadel, 2193**

“How you doing?”

It was Garrus’ day off. And while he had already gone to the range, eaten lunch, and watched three hours of bad vids, Shepard had only managed to wrap herself in her disreputable grey robe and migrate from lying in bed to lying on the couch. To her credit, she had a pile of datapads swamping her like seaweed around a piece of driftwood, but how much work she actually accomplished was debatable. Half the time he glanced at her, her eyes were shut tightly, as though physically warding off waves of pain. He knew from experience that the less she moved now, the more she would hurt tomorrow, but he couldn’t bring himself to suggest it. She looked so small and drawn, grey with fatigue and suffering, that he felt as useless as that time on the Collector ship when he got pinned down by those scions and that praetorian thing knocked her flat on her back.

Shepard winced even before she spoke, though she downplayed it with a small shake of her head. “Just a little sore.”

Garrus knew what that meant. The pain was excruciating, but she would live through it. Anyone can be brave for an instant, but it takes real courage to live each day. Shepard had always been the bravest person he knew.

The truth was that she hadn’t moved more than was strictly possible all day. The apartment had that quiet, lackadaisical quality of a rainy day, though of course the weather on the Citadel was always manufactured to perfection.

 “I’ll make you more tea in a little while. You have to drink, at least.” Her feet were in his lap and, though he had never reconciled himself to them the way he had with her hands— he wasn’t even sure he understood how she walked to this day— he did like that the high curve of her arches fit perfectly in his palms so that he could close his fingers around each frigid foot.

She had made a sound of exasperation at his admonishment, but when he took hold of her strange extremities, she managed a blanched little smile. “You’re doing better.”

“Me?” His subvocals pitched high in surprise. “Yeah, my leg hasn’t really bothered me since Gamecock.” It was strange to think they had been on the Citadel for nearly half a standard year now. Three months since their adventure in Huri’daal’s. “I guess what they say about the weather is true.”

She shook her head, then sucked in a harsh breath. For a moment, she held herself completely still and then exhaled. Her voice came out tight. “No, I didn’t mean that. You haven’t been as anxious for a while.”

Garrus turned his head back to the vid screen. An infomercial for Kellam Industries, the colonial development firm Oriana Lawson worked for, was paused on the cheerful faces of varied-specied children as they drank fresh, clean water in an educational playroom. Shepard kept in touch with both her and Kolyat, Krios’ son, who was a C-Sec detective in the Zakera Ward. Once you were in Shepard’s orbit, she felt it was her duty to watch over, aid, and protect you, much like her proverbial namesake and his flock. Shepard had insisted that they watch the long ad, though he planned to change the channel once Citadel Suites came on in ten minutes.

Not that it was his favourite show or anything.

“Yeah, I have been better. I guess I didn’t notice with everything going on. The move and work, they helped.”

Her bizarre toes flexed in his hands. “I was worried about you.”

Turians didn’t duck, but Garrus did study the contents of his lap with embarrassed interest. “Yeah, I know.”

Her breath caught as she shifted herself in the camp of pillows she made on the couch. “I still think you should talk to someone. So it doesn’t get that bad again.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” The truth was that he wanted to enjoy feeling this way— feeling good— for a while longer. Before someone asked him to dive into all the reasons why he had felt so terribly in those moments that still engulfed him. Instead, he tilted his head toward her.  “How about you, though? You like this new guy?”

Shepard had resumed psychotherapy with a therapist who had still been in school during the Battle of the Citadel. At first, she had been sceptical; his youth a black mark against him, but she seemed to be warming up to him as of late.

“Yeah.” It was Shepard’s turn to look away, staring at the datapad in her hands. “He’s trying to convince me it’s okay if I can’t do everything I used to. That, despite some extra parts, I’m not a machine. I’m just one person.” Her voice was flat as she said this, as though she were reciting a lesson she didn’t necessarily believe.

Garrus made a humorous noise of disbelief to echo this sentiment. “Good luck with that.”

“Hey,” she scolded him with a fond, guilty smile. He teased her with a flick of his talons against her ankle. In retaliation, she wriggled her toes against his hands. “He also said I should be focusing on other things.”

“Yeah? Like what?” he asked curiously.

Her previous therapist had encouraged Shepard to work at everything she found difficult, from simple things like going outside once a day to others that were clearly much harder, such as those problematic trips to the range. Garrus privately thought it was simply too much. Shepard was fighting a daily battle with her uncooperative body. He felt the work she did in physical therapy three times a week took a toll on her that was unaccounted for by her previous therapist. And that continuously pushing herself to combat her internal struggles that didn’t necessarily hinder her daily life was going to end in another breakdown. He did voice his concerns to Shepard, but beyond that he said no more. She trusted him and he trusted her and part of that trust was letting one and other make their own decisions, even if it meant supporting each other in failure.

So he was much encouraged and relieved when she said, “Things I can do. That I enjoy, but have a purpose, so I don’t feel like it’s all indulgent. The new ad campaign for FAIR. Planning the wedding so we can see everyone again.”

Her chilled feet had finally begun to warm in his hands and he gave them a squeeze. “I think one of those involves my help.”

She shot him a dubious, amused glance. “How about you just show up in the suit I pick out for you?”

Garrus tilted his head back and forth as though debating the matter before he offered, “Can I pick the music, too?”

“Of course.”

 She said it in such a definite way that he grinned at her, mandibles akimbo.

“I knew there was a reason I was marrying you.”

Shepard began to laugh but it ended in a pained sound. She sank back into the pillows behind her. “You say that now. I’m the one who’s going to be arranging the ceremony.”

His show was about to begin, but the recorder could always pick it up. Instead, he gingerly adjusted her legs so he could sit facing her. “What do you have to arrange? We say some vows, like in your human vids, and sign a contract, like in my— uh, turian vids.”

She tried to draw her knees up to aid his efforts, but her lips went white with pain. Quickly, but with care, he helped her straighten her limbs in his lap once more. When she caught her breath, she said in that tight voice again, “Actually, we don’t do vows.”

Garrus felt his mandibles pinch against his face as he watched her breath out the pain. He circled her ankles with his talons. “You can’t fool me, Shepard. Sol’s made me sit through some of them.”

She closed her eyes and took another deep breath, “But not of a Jewish wedding. We sign a contract, too.”

“Really?” It still amazed Garrus to hear how people who developed cultures a galaxy apart could be so alike. He knew Shepard found comfort in it, and he understood that to a certain extent, but it still awed him just the same.

He watched as her face cleared from unimaginable to barely tolerable pain, as though observing the dying winds of a storm as the eye approached. She held herself like glass as she spoke, “Yeah, and then it’s read out loud.”

“Two contracts,” he thought aloud, then flicked his mandibles out at her. “So we’re having a volus wedding, huh?”

That earned him a wan, if genuine smile. “Pretty much.”

“Deran is going to be so jealous of me,” Garrus drawled. “Perfect.”

Deran was, in fact, a confirmed bachelor who had never so much had a whisper of a rumoured relationship with anyone but the media. Shepard took this teasing with a dismissive sigh. “Isn’t there any traditional turian ceremonial custom you’d like to add? I’d like a _chuppah_.”

 “What’s that?”

His visor could have queued up possible definitions, but he preferred to have Shepard explain things about her culture in her own words. “It’s like a canopy you stand under during the ceremony. Here.” She— very quickly, he noticed— sent him a link from her omni-tool to his.

He wondered how long she had the tab opened, hiding a quick flare of his mandibles. It was very flattering to know she was as eager to get married as he was, for all she insisted on waiting to plan a get-together than just registering their union. “That’s nice,” he agreed, studying the pictures of four-posted canopies draped in white cloth. Images of couples; brides veiled like quarians, happily dancing in circles, sometimes aloft in chairs, scrolled past. Lowering his arm, he shrugged in response to her earlier question. “I don’t know. I think my parents had a binding ceremony. I’d have to ask my dad.”

“We’ll do that, then, too.”

He grinned at how readily she agreed without asking what it entailed. It was a classic Shepard move and it made him rub her calf fondly as he added, “But not that chair dance.”

She looked up from her ‘tool in surprise, “What? Really?”

“Definitely,” he asserted firmly. No one was jostling him up and down in the air while he flailed in a chair. It looked suspiciously like swimming.

“We’ll see,” was her only response as she applied herself to her omni-tool once more.

Garrus poked a talon at the orange interface to get her attention. “I know what that means, Shepard. My mom was a big fan of ‘we’ll see.’”

Shepard lowered her arm with a sigh. “Well, we can’t have a _minyan_.” Garrus opened his mouth to ask what that was, but she was still talking. “But I’d like a rabbi.”

“Oh, I know a guy,” he said promptly and easily.

Shepard’s mouth quirked in suspicious disbelief. “You ‘know a guy?’ Don’t tell me you had a rabbi as a suspect for a murder.”

Garrus realised his mistake after he spoke, as it was a common detriment he found himself in. He let go of her leg to rub the back of his neck. “No, it, uh, wasn’t for work.”

The disbelief fled but the suspicion remained. He wondered what she was thinking when she calmly suggested, “Drinking buddy?”

He cleared his throat, grateful she didn’t press the matter further. “Something like that.”

With a grimace of effort, she held out her hand until he offered his own. Squeezing it with firm reassurance, she then let it go to ease back into her pillows. “Well, I don’t know any Valluvian priests.”

Garrus flicked a talon again, this time at her knee. “That’s because they’re all dead. We’ll find an officiant.”

With another wince, Shepard began to sit up straighter and move the datapads from her lap to the low, mirrored table. Her face had that resolute expression she wore before infiltrating a Cerberus base. “And we need to rent a room somewhere. Which means we need to settle on a date. So we should see when everyone can get leave. And Garrus?”

“Yeah?” He didn’t look up as he helped her with the overflow of datapads.

Suddenly, her voice grew small, as though asking a favour beyond his abilities. “I’d really like that tea now.”

He leaned over and brushed his forehead against the top of her hair. “On it.”

And as he stood by the kettle while it boiled, dumping sugar in an oversized mug, Garrus remembered the first time he realised he loved Shepard. He set the spoon down as he watched her, stiffly sprawled on the couch and propped up on pillows as she scrolled through tabs on her omni-tool, her familiar face framed in flickering amber light. They had gone through so much since that night on the _Normandy_ SR-2. They had come out battered and broken. But they had done it together. He really wouldn’t have had it any other way.


	16. In the Late Night Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you feel so tired but you can't sleep.

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

Time sped swiftly by on the Citadel at a deceptively mild pace. The lack of seasons, of fluctuating temperatures and slanting angles of sunlight, made every day seem similar until weeks had passed, unnoticed and unremarked.

The Council was in session and Garrus spent more time in his office in Kithoi than at home. Shepard was busy, too, having filmed an ad campaign for FAIR encouraging Citadel residents to reach out to their local delegates and demand volus representation in the Council.

She wore her jacket in them and whenever they played around the Citadel, he knew his mandibles pulled out in a stupid grin. Maybe a ring would have meant more to others. Everyone— everyone human, at least, would see it and know. But there was something precious about having it this way. It was an extension of the way their relationship had always been. If you knew what to look for, you saw it. If you were too busy or blind to notice, it didn’t matter because it changed nothing about what they meant to each other.

Word about their engagement had somehow not leaked to the press, though enough people knew about it to talk if they really felt like it. But the former crew of the _Normandy_ still ran a tight ship, even worlds away from each other.

Leave had been secured by those still serving, a date had been set, and several rooms at a rather nice hotel in Edroki Plaza had been reserved. Garrus made playlists as he scrutinised briefings at work and answered Shepard’s carefully detailed emails about food and drink during his lunch breaks. Though it could be noted he didn’t pay as much attention to the equally fluent messages about napkins and tablecloths. But even those made him pause for a moment, if only in fond regard. Shepard took on wedding planning as she had waged a war. A rundown on seating charts read much the same as a pre-mission report.

So though the months flew past and Garrus and Shepard found their routines on the Citadel, some things couldn’t be escaped. A war that had nearly killed her— nearly killed them all— had happened only six standard years ago. And though it didn’t happen as often, there were still times when Garrus couldn’t think or breath or speak.

He wasn’t the only one who lived with the weight, either.

In the quiet lull of a Kithoi night, they lay turned into each other. Her breathing was steady and her hand loosely clutched the edge of his cowl. But Garrus knew from the measured rise and fall of her chest, soft against him, that Shepard was awake. “You’re not sleeping.”

The amber glow that lit the night cycle couldn’t disclose the upturned corner of her mouth, but he heard it in the murmur of her voice. “Always the detective.”

He caught her fingers in his own, silent as she knit their hands together. In the light of day, he would marvel at how they looked together, slim and white against thick and fawn; the translucency of her skin against his dusky hide. But it was too dim to see and so he considered how once he had only imagined how their hands would fit together. How effortlessly their fingers slid against one another now.

Her voice joined the quiet rather than shattering it. “I can’t stop thinking.”

She didn’t elaborate tonight, but he heard everything left unsaid. The doubt that lingered over decisions made during the war. The mourning of friends lost. The guilt of not feeling remorseful for sacrifices given to the altar of victory.

He swallowed around his own qualms and fears and made his voice light. “About what you’ll wear?”

Garrus said it as a jest, a means to distract, but it only made Shepard turn her face into her pillow as though to hide from the thought. “Yeah, that too.”

“It can’t be that hard. White, right?” He knew that much, at least. Sol, and Tali by omni-tool, bombarded her with images of frothy confections of dresses, but so far Shepard hadn’t shown an inclination toward any at all.

Her sigh was muffled by the plump pillow. “I don’t know. I don’t look very good in white.”

He shifted to his side until his forehead touched the silky back of her head. “You look beautiful in everything.”

Garrus meant it sincerely, but he didn’t begrudge the laughter it earned him instead. Shepard turned her face until he could see the glint of her eyes. Their hands were still woven together. “You’re going to make such a good husband.”

His mandibles flickered, so close it stirred her hair. “Definitely.” This near, despite the darkness, he could see the tiny crinkles in the corner of her eyes, the faint lines that cupped her mouth like covetous hands. “You’re not going to wear one of those veil things, are you?”

She moved her head back a bit in surprise. He had offered so few opinions as to the wedding in general that her reaction was not unwarranted. “Well, yes. It’s tradition.”

He pulled his hand away from hers to trace those dear and familiar lines. “But I want to see your face.”

It was a refrain heard from him when they made love and though had meant to distract her, Garrus also hadn’t meant to make any overtures of lust. Lest she get the wrong idea, he opened his mouth to explain himself, but she quieted him by taking his hand from her cheek and kissing it instead. Shepard always understood his intentions. “You will. I promise.”

An ineffable wave of tenderness toward her washed over him like a warm wave. It was strange to think how close one could be with another. Garrus had once thought sex was the pinnacle of such an achievement until he met Shepard. Then he learned how intimate a small gesture or quiet word or shared thought could be. Now, as they simply breathed each other in, he knew they were as one. His fingers curled with hers once more, tugging them away from her mouth until they were tucked against his keel.  “So that’s settled. Think you can go to sleep now?”

Her eyes were heavier now, lashes casting long shadows on her high cheeks. Still, she said, “Maybe in a little while.” And though they were so near, she burrowed in closer still.  “Just stay like this until I do?”

She was so warm against him, under the layers of bedclothes and proximity to his own heat. A healthy pull of sleep tugged at him; nothing like the sick onslaughts of exhaustion that still plagued him on occasion. “I’ll always have your six. Even in bed.” He was so close to drowsing that it felt like minutes before he understood why Shepard’s body shook merrily against his. “Wait. I mean—"

She silenced him with a sleepy kiss. “I love you.”

It would be a lie to say they slept untroubled after that, but there was a kind of security they found in each other’s arms that made such unbearable nights somehow bearable.

 

 


	17. In the Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The difference between knowing and knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussions relating to female reproductive health, including menstruation and infertility.

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

The apartment was oddly still when Garrus came home early one evening nearly a year since their last autumn walk in Gamecock. He so rarely left the office early these days, cheerfully mired in the security problems a place as large as the Citadel had to offer one eager to find and solve them. But that strange hour between noon and night was suddenly free and, just as suddenly, Garrus wanted to be home.

“Shepard?”

There was no answer and it occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from her since that morning. He checked his omni-tool as he headed toward the bedroom, but he heard the subtle vibration of her own alert just as he entered their room.

She was on the rumpled bed, surreptitiously wiping at her eyes as she sat up. The curtains were drawn against the artificial sunlight, plunging the room in gloomy shadows. Dread licked at Garrus’ fringe as the memory of those months Shepard spent in Gamecock, unable to leave their house, came into mind, but he forced himself to sound only concerned instead of devastated. “Everything all right?”

She was already speaking, dismissing her omni-tool as she combed her hair with her fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was so late.” She didn’t look at him as she straightened the bedding, but he caught a glimpse of her face, pale as always, but her eyes were a brilliant green. It was a beautiful sight and one he wished never to see. They only turned that colour when she cried.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head in a movement that was more than a denial. He recognised it as a gesture she made when dismissing her own emotions. Still, she said, “Nothing.”

He finally moved from the doorway. When he put a hand on her shoulder, her movements halted, as though quelled. Beneath his palm, her shoulder moved as she sighed. It hung in the air and he noticed how the dimness of the room faded the copper of her hair.

“I got my period.”

“Oh.” Reflexively, he stiffened with awkwardness. Though he had previously lived with both his mother and his sister, and served on ships, in units, and offices with non-gendered bathrooms frequented by all manner of species, the mysteries of menstruation remained elusively alien to him. When he and Shepard first embarked on their relationship, she was on a stringent birth control plan adopted by the Alliance that eliminated menses altogether, but her injuries during the war, subsequent drug regimen, and lack of need, considering her life partner, called for a less invasive approach. Now, as far as he was enlightened, a period was a monthly occurrence that sometimes infringed upon certain activities and, at worst, left Shepard curled up with a heating pad for a day or two. She wasn’t usually in tears about it, however.

He cast his mind for something to say that would be soothing, yet not patronising, and came up short. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder and pressed his mouthplates against the top of her head, lest she think his fumbling attempts at comfort were instead a reaction of repellency.

She reached up to pat his hand, but moved away to sit heavily on the bed, as though she hadn’t just made a concerted effort to straighten it. Before he could wonder at her actions, she twisted her hands in her lap and he was struck by how they looked, in the shadows, like they had when she lay in the hospital bed in Coventry.

“I was late. Just a few days. It happens. But I let myself imagine, just for a little while, what it would be like if it could really happen…” A small, wistful smile curved her mouth. “How I’d tell you and how happy you’d be. How happy we’d be… I knew, of course, it couldn’t, but I let myself imagine, and then I got my period.”

It would be a lie to say that he hadn’t imagined such a situation himself, though they both knew it never could transpire. He had accepted that a long time ago; it never occurred to him that she was still wrangling with such resignation.

Shepard hated when Garrus sat on the bed in his work clothes, but he couldn’t let her sit there alone with that forlorn expression and the unhappy twisting of her fingers. He moved beside her and took her hand, distantly relieved to find it its delicateness was offset by firm flesh and not that feeling of too-many brittle bones in thin skin, as it had felt in Coventry.

She leaned against him and he once more nuzzled the top of her head. The room grew dimmer as the day cycle eased into night. Normally, sitting in the dark, curled up like this, would lend a certain lassitude to the air, creating a soporific haze, but his mind moved as though on a long, persistent march. It dwelt on those days in Coventry before she woke, when he realised he would have to say good-bye. She had died above Alchera, and yet it hadn’t felt final. She had been battered, bruised, broken, and bleeding before his eyes more than once—too many times, in fact—and yet it wasn’t until he held her hand, the skin paper-thin and cold, the bones like a bundle of twigs, that he knew and understood she could leave his life forever. Accepting that knowledge was a pain he had never felt before, and yet something he had learned to live with, like the stiffness in his leg; a dull, persistent ache that never left him.

“There’s a difference between knowing and _knowing_.”

She moved to look up at him, her face a pale disc in the last light. Her hand went to his scarred mandible, as it always did when she heard that quality in his voice, of tenderness borne of both pain and compassion, adoration and sorrow. “I wish I could give you everything.”

He leaned his forehead against hers firmly as though to drive the thought from her head. “I have everything I want right here.”

Her eyes, still so green, shone like stars through the radioactive haze of Tuchanka beyond the Shroud. Neither of them moved for a long time, content to bask in the warmth of each other, like two moons reflecting a star. The orange glow of the night cycle carpeted the room in burnished light before she pressed her mouth to his. “I better get started on dinner.”

Before she could move to stand, though, he caught her arm lightly. “Wait, Shepard. Do you want to—I mean, I could call a lawyer. We could start the process.”

That small smile returned, not as unhappy as before, but just as wistful. “Not just yet. I need some time. To know, like you said.”

“Yeah,” he said in understanding, but he could already see their second bedroom, the office, awash in pale colours and tiny clothes, Shepard holding a bundle in her arms.

“Yeah,” he said again.


	18. Another Conversation with Victus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrien and Garrus have another chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, we're almost there! After this chapter is the wedding, a two-parter, and then we're done! Thank you so much for joining me on this adventure. Your comments and kudos and support mean the world to me!
> 
> My awesome beta, [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer/works?fandom_id=15764730) kindly allowed me to borrow her Adrien Victus and his world. Please go read her work! It's amazing!

**The Citadel, 2193**

 

Human holidays still confused Garrus. Even after dating a member of the species for nine years, he still only had a vague understanding of them. This was likely because Shepard didn’t seem to celebrate the most popular ones, and didn’t try to involve him in the low-key way she kept her own unless he expressed an interest. But as far as he could tell, they all seemed to revolve around colours and food, whether it was indulging or denying in the latter.

It was currently the red and green holiday, as Garrus thought of it, and it was one Shepard neither observed or enjoyed. As soon as the human-centric areas of the ward began to festoon their storefronts with the two colours, she had sighed and murmured, “Already?”

Now the ‘red and green’ festival was in full swing and nearly every human in the office had taken their vacation time. It meant more work for Garrus, who had to pick up the slack left by his analysts and he spent long hours into the night cycle hunched over his terminal, crunching intelligence data and patterns.

Uliya, his still-resentful assistant, had long since left for the night, but he still wasn’t surprised when his omni-tool buzzed with a message directly from Victus: My office. Now.

Garrus’ mandibles pinched tightly to his face. It wasn’t that he minded the tone, as the Councillor could often be abrupt, it was simply that he didn’t know which Victus he was going to get. Adrien would invite him to his office to knock back some Digerian whiskey and shoot the breeze, but the Councillor would chastise Garrus for one of the former’s security detail looking too slovenly that day.

He didn’t bother to message his boss back. Victus would expect him to merely show up.

As Garrus walked through the mostly vacant office spaces, for now the Council’s private offices were housed in the old Archives as well, he felt the same trepidation creep over his fringe as it had when he was a fledgling and misbehaved. That feeling of impending punishment shadowed him, though he was now an adult, and a successful one at that. It’s funny, he thought as he neared Victus’ door, the power people hold over each other, and how we let them.

Victus was seated at his desk, just like he had been during that vid-call over a year ago. His clever assistant’s desk was empty, and his door was opened in the amber gloom of the Citadel night. Two members of his detail, a deceptively sleepy-eyed krogan and a wiry whippet of a turian nodded to him from their posts outside the office.

“Vakarian,” Victus said by way of greeting. There was nothing in his tone to betray his mood. “I’ve heard you put in for vacation time.”

Garrus had, in fact, done just that two days ago. Turians had no notions of honeymoons but he was all for the concept of two weeks on a beach with Shepard. He could easily picture the sunburn on her cheeks and the beams playing in her copper-gold hair.

“Well, yeah,” he said, not adding that he hadn’t used a single vacation day since he took the job, though he thought it rather peevishly as he cycled the door shut. The sleepy-eyed krogan gave him another brief nod just before they closed, his small gimlet gaze missing nothing.

“After this… wedding ceremony.” Victus’ subvocals said exactly what he thought of wedding ceremonies. Dismissive derision buzzed in his chief of security’s aural canals.

The thing was, this was the first time Victus had ever indicated he was aware Garrus was getting married at all, though he must have been aware of it for some time. The _Normandy_ crew didn’t spill outside their circle, but he and Shepard had sent save-the-date emails to a select few friends outside that circle. True that they hadn’t specified said date was for a wedding, but surely the Turian Councillor of Citadel Space could figure that out on his own.

Victus still hadn’t indicated Garrus might sit, so he shifted his weight in an obvious manner from foot to foot. “You know, human traditions. You take a vacation after and—"

The Councillor levelled his steely stare on Garrus. “You want me to pay you to fornicate on the beach for two weeks.” It wasn’t a question.

“Uh, well…” There really was no way to answer that. After all, that was pretty much the gist of it. He wondered how Victus knew Shepard had reserved a place on Nevos’ famous shores, though.

Victus pinned Garrus in place with his eyes, his subvocals giving away nothing. “After I’ve already had to endure dropping by this ‘wedding’ in the first place.” Though he didn’t frame the words with his fingers, the implication was the same.

Truthfully, Garrus hadn’t really expected Victus to come at all. Theirs was a friendship of silent understanding that rarely manifested beyond late nights over drinks. Though it was a nice thought that he would show up, Garrus demurred just the same, “You don’t have to—"

“Tell me, is there yet another party when you return? Do they celebrate that, too?”

And though Victus’ face was as unreadable as stone, Garrus heard the mirth creep into his boss’ subvocals. The latter dropped into the seat across from the former with his characteristic insouciant sprawl. “Not as far as I know, but then again…” He shrugged, “Humans.”

Victus finally allowed himself a little smirking tug of his mandibles. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Garrus’ mandibles moved far more easily and widely. “Definitely, if those congratulations include that bottle of Digerian ‘85 you’ve got there.”

Adrien appeared amiable to the suggestion. He grabbed the tall bottle and two glasses from a tray beneath the mounted pereaclops head behind him without rising from his seat. His movements as he poured several fingers in the two glasses were with the ease and grace of someone vitally confident in himself. “I suppose I should say that it took you both long enough. The galaxy has been waiting with bated breath for news of your nuptials.”

Garrus could never prove it, and though Victus had been a crucial ally in the war, but he always had a hunch that his boss didn’t quite approve of the one-time commander. Not once had Victus said a word against Shepard, but there was something in his immobile face when Garrus had, in passing, mentioned her work with FAIR that gave him reason to pause. He didn’t think it was the volus seat that irritated Victus, but rather someone as influential as Shepard involving herself in politics that touched the Hierarchy.

Still, Garrus took the glass Victus offered him and downed a healthy swallow. “Got any advice instead?”

Victus had been married once, long ago, though he spoke about her as often as he spoke about his lost son. Garrus had a vague idea she died when Tarquin’ fringe was still soft.

Adrien studied the liquid in his glass in the soft russet glow of light that filtered in from the windows overlooking the Kithoi Ward. “Clean up after yourself.” His subvocals burned with bitter humour. “And enjoy the time you have together.”

Garrus’ sharp eyes took in Victus, though the latter condescended not to notice. He had never remarried, and though there were rumours linking him to Primarch Nyx of Edessan, nothing beyond blowing off steam seemed in danger of developing. For a brief moment, Garrus envisioned himself confiding his deepest, darkest fears to Victus. If anyone would understand the terror of losing one’s whole world, of losing those nearest and dearest, it was Adrien. But Garrus said nothing. After all, Shepard was alive. His dad and Sol were alive. He had everything he ever wanted. And what did Victus have? His job? The power that came with it? Was he happy with it?

Victus was busy taking a measured swallow of the whiskey or he might have noticed the pitying glance his chief of security gave him and scorned it with scorching words. As it was, they both sipped their drinks in quiet respite. Garrus marvelling at his happiness, Victus, no doubt luxuriating in his power, and both, the former knew, at their luck.


	19. A Wedding Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jewish ceremony depicted here is of a more observant quality; the turian one is all made up out of my head. Enjoy!

**The Citadel, 2194**

 

Garrus’ guts felt like coiled thresher maws in his abdomen. A deep, roiling sensation made him feel like he was back in the Mako again, specifically with Shepard behind the wheel. Wrex was, in fact, baring his yellow teeth at him in a grin that only added to the illusion. But it was very hard to focus on Wrex, or Tali’s eyes gleaming through the envirosuit she had willingly donned for a very special occasion.

Rabbi Rosenberg, stomach a little less paunchy, beard a little less sleek, beamed benevolently beneath the billowing canopy of quarian cloth Garrus stood beneath. “Relax, _boychik._ It’s a happy day.”

Garrus could only swallow and nod absently, though it wasn’t nerves that made him so anxious.

It was anticipation.

He felt not unlike on the battlefield, a roar in his aural canals, colours enhanced before his eyes; that unnatural quality of it all. Even the presence of his dad and Sol, who stood with him under the _chuppah_ , a happy compromise between Shepard’s traditions and his own, couldn’t ground him.

Tali was wringing her hands in her lap, which made him abruptly aware of his own impatient finger-twisting. Sol, her navy-and-silver gown moving fluidly with her graceful gestures, leaned forward to say something to him—

But then the doors opened.

How had he been afraid he wouldn’t be able to see her clearly? Shepard’s face was alight beneath the pale gossamer-loomed veil; the same sheer silver quarian cloth that hung above him. He was so lost in the radiance of her smile that, at first, he barely registered anything else. But as she stepped closer, he saw her gown, quicksilver in colour and movement, was like the clothing in those old, colourless vids she liked. Where the women were short-tempered and quick-tongued and the men had a troubled, brooding quality that hung as thick as the smoke they blew out.

Wreathed around her head, atop Tali’s gift, and clutched in her hands were cherry blossoms, the same that he, a terrible turian with a sentimental bent to his fringe, had suggested festoon the four corners of the _chuppah_. Yet, he saw silvery, bowl-shaped petals and leaves shine through the pink blooms and he realised that they were _galanthus_ , his mother’s favourite flowers. It wasn’t until she handed Solana her bouquet that he saw the flash of metal encircling the tapered sleeves of her gown. His mother’s cuffs that Sol rescued from Palaven. A strange, choked keening noise made him look at Castis, but it wasn’t until his dad put a heavy hand on his cowl that Garrus realised he himself made the sound.

Somehow, her hands— icy even through his gloves— were in his, trembling along with her smile as Rabbi Rosenberg began to welcome the small, assembled audience. Somewhere in his periphery, Joker coughed and put his arm around the back of his date’s chair. Dr. Chakwas surreptitiously wiped her eyes. But everything else was motes of dust compared to the beaming rays of Shepard’s face.

Rabbi Rosenberg stepped forward then, as the quiet murmurings in the room died down. Opening his hands wide, he began, “Now, I have to admit, this isn’t a typical wedding for me. Usually we have a _minyan_ with the _Sheva Brachot_ , and more prayers, lots of prayers! But Rachel here—" At this, there was a bit of scuffling as people shifted in their seats, reminding themselves that Shepard had another name. Even Garrus sometimes forgot. “She says, no prayers. She doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. And Garrus here, he says she only makes people nervous.”

There was a quiet ripple of mirth in the audience as the rabbi recollected, “This, they laughed! Such happy people. It’s such an honour to marry happy people. Heroes, schmeroes,” he waved his hand dismissively. “We have lots of them. Well-deserved, brave individuals to whom we owe our happiness. But these two—" Rabbi Rosenberg put his hand on their joined hands for a moment. “These two make each other very happy. They owe their happiness to each other.”

Shepard’s fingers tightened in his own, gazing at Garrus with such reverence that he felt he might combust in its glory. His own crook-mandibled smile felt weak and pale in comparison.

As though from a distance, the rabbi continued, “You know, it’s something, when I look out upon all of you. The first time I met Garrus, many years ago, he told me two things. He told me Rachel here was dead. And well, she was a Spectre, a very important person helping people, helping _us,_ so we can forgive her the subterfuge, yes?” There was an uneasy rustling in the crowd which spoke to that supposed subterfuge. Shepard’s grin faltered and, for a moment, her lashes cast down. Garrus clutched her fingers even more tightly in his, until she looked up at him once more with glistening eyes. “But the other thing he said. He said she had no family. And Garrus, he’s a good man, a _mensch.”_ Now Shepard couldn’t beam any brighter; her eyes crinkled with silent laughter. He felt slightly lightheaded, as though this euphoria was a drug. “But I see he was wrong. Very wrong. I see she— and he— have a big, beautiful family.”

An appreciative murmur went through the audience as the rabbi clapped his hands together. “So let us begin!”

The order of Shepard’s part of the ceremony was drilled into Garrus’ head. He had spent all of the previous night and that morning chanting it to himself. Ring, wine, contract, glass. Ring, wine, contract, glass.

The ring itself had been burning a hole in his pocket since that morning as well, lest he lose it or drop it or if it somehow didn’t go on Shepard’s slim forefinger. It was disappointingly simple, just a thin band of rose gold shaped into a chevron. She explained to him that it couldn’t have stones or any openwork. It had to be a perfectly closed circle. But, though he would have liked to have gotten her that ring with the pink heart-shaped stone and the band that made it appear an arrow was piercing it, Shepard had picked this out herself and seemed quite happy with it.

It went on so easily that Garrus worried it would slip off. And though she insisted he didn’t have to say it, he thought the traditional words were beautiful. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” If only his subvocals hadn’t cracked on the words.

Shepard’s smile didn’t waver; if anything it grew as they exchanged sips of dual-chirality wine from a chunky silver goblet the rabbi had blessed. Somehow, he managed not to spill it down the front of his new navy suit.

“Mr. Urdnot Wrex. Ms. Tali’zorah nar Normandy vas Rannoch. Please, please, come here.” Rabbi Rosenberg was beckoning the two to join them under the _chuppah._ Two witnesses, not of blood relation, were required to sign the _ketubah_.

Tali, her most festive belts swathing her hips, was quick to grab and squeeze Shepard’s newly beringed hand, but Wrex took his time lumbering up to the canopy with an amused grunt. Tali’s head was tilted at an angle that Garrus had always come to associate with a happy quarian, but it was Wrex’s brief nod of approval that really made Garrus’ mandibles twitch in a pleased grin.

A heavy piece of cream parchment— actual paper— was illuminated by a fabulously coloured, broad-branched and flourishing tree. There were even fat, white-winged creatures lurking in the brightly inked foliage. The rabbi handed Shepard a pen and watched with approval as she scrawled her looping signature in the bottom corner. Garrus had no time to fear the ink would mar her dress before she passed the pen to him. His own pointy letters looked foreign on the paper, but once Wrex and Tali and then Rabbi Rosenberg added their own, Garrus could see the beauty in the joining of so many different cultural markings; as symbolic as the thriving tree, on this document of his marriage to Shepard.

The rabbi shook hands with Tali, then Wrex, who both found their way back to the audience. The rabbi cleared his throat above the scrape of chairs as he said, “The _ketubah,_ the marriage contract, is a most important part of the wedding. You see, with the ring and the wine, Rachel and Garrus are betrothed, but with the _ketubah_ , they are married.”

Shepard’s hand found his again, from where they stood with Rabbi Rosenberg, behind the table where the contract laid flat and wet with ink. Garrus thought he could feel her heartbeat in the tips of her fingers, or maybe it was his, so violently was it beating in beneath his carapace. _Married._

“On the sixth day of the week, on the twenty-third day of Adar, in the year fifty-eight hundred fifty-four, corresponding to the fifteenth day of the third month in the year twenty-one hundred ninety-four, here in the groom, Garrus Vakarian, said to the bride, Rachel Ayelet Shepard, ‘Be my wife. I will cherish and respect you and work for our mutual sustenance, living with you as your husband, and always watching your six.’”

Another appreciative laugh went up among the former crew, but the rabbi only raised his brows and went on.

“The bride, Rachel Ayelet Shepard, said to the groom, ‘Be my husband. I will cherish and respect you and work for our mutual sustenance, living with you as your wife and always allowing you to disobey orders.’”

There was murmured sentiment that perhaps everyone should marry Shepard if it meant refusing suicidal orders, but Garrus heard none of it. Shepard was smiling on him like the sun.

“Bride and groom have promised to establish a loving and respectful home from this day forth. They have committed themselves to the covenant of marriage written this day between them. The symbolic acquisition by the groom and the bride, with regard to everything written and explained above, has been performed. All herein written is valid and binding.”

And, with that, the guests began to clap, but Rabbi Rosenberg held up his hands. “Not yet, not yet! We have to do…”

_Glass._

The rabbi placed a cylinder-shaped, tightly-wrapped napkin in the middle of the _chuppah._ “The glass!”

Garrus was sure of three things today. He loved Shepard, he wanted to marry her, and he was going to smash the crap out of that glass. It was especially good luck if you broke it on the first try and the threat of failing loomed large in his thoughts ever since.

The resulting _pop_ , not unlike a gunshot or even a flashbang, was so resounding that chairs skidded back and away, someone yelped, and the rabbi had to steady himself against Shepard in her bridal finery.

“Now! Now we say _mazel tov_!”

It was strange, how he longed to kiss Shepard since she walked in with her silks and blossoms, but now he fumbled awkwardly with her veil and paused to look down into her shining face. It felt wrong, somehow, to share this moment, even with his dad and Sol, even with the _Normandy_ crew. He wondered if Shepard felt it, too. The sacredness of this moment. He was sure she did, sure he sensed it in their too-brief kiss.

It was over so quickly, with Sol and Castis stepping forward to brush their foreheads against his, against Shepard’s. With the rabbi taking the napkin full of glass and _ketubah_ away, and the officiant for the turian bonding ceremony coming forward, moving and rearranging the table.

Solana carefully folded Shepard’s veil, taking her circlet and placing them with her pink-and-silver bouquet. Castis stepped back to place a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Ohad, the dark-plated officiant, didn’t speak as he ushered the bride and groom forward.

The turian marriage contract, unlike the elaborate document they had just signed, was a datapad registering a change in marital status with the Hierarchy and requiring two witnesses. After Shepard and Garrus, rather unceremoniously keyed in their signatures, Castis and Solana followed suit.

In the eyes of the Hierarchy, they were now married.

But, there were old traditions, beautiful ceremonies that turians still sometimes celebrated to consecrate a wedding. Garrus’ parents had a binding ceremony and he thought his mom would have liked it if he had one as well.

Ohad lifted a length of purple rope from the table and stepped forward. “From the days of the Titans and Valluvian Priests, we have striven towards the stars. Yet, we recognise we cannot reach them alone. A helpmeet, a lover, a friend, will get us there faster, will make us each a stronger person.”

Garrus swallowed at the words. Castis’ subvocals warbled with emotion as Ohad knelt down and looped the rope around Garrus and Shepard’s feet. “Bound at the feet so you may always be on even ground.” He looped it again around their waists. “Bound at the waist so may always meet each other in the middle.” Now, securing their wrists together. “Bound at the hands so your helpmeet is always in reach.” Another symbolic knot went around their heads, so Shepard’s brow leaned against his. It was hard not to flick his mandibles out, especially at her nervous smile. “Bound at the brow so you may always have a meeting of minds.”

Ohad stepped away from them and with a flick of his wrist, the knots fell undone. With another, the rope coiled in his hand. An impressed sound was heard among the audience to the ritual, but Ohad paid it no mind. He placed the bundle of rope in a bowl and poured sweet smelling oil over it. Then, with another flick of his wrist, set the bowl aflame.

There was a gasp behind Garrus, clearly from someone who had never witnessed a binding ceremony before, but soon the cloying odour of ash and oil pervaded the room. Ohad brought the bowl forward and held it between Garrus and Shepard.

“Though we have reached the heavens and attained many stars as our own, today your only home is with each other.”

Though the ceremonial oil made the rope burn quickly, it also cooled the ash rapidly. Shepard, with the barest hint of hesitation, dipped her fingers in the bowl and began to cover up Garrus’ colony markings with the warm ash, symbolically erasing them to give weight to the words of the rite.  Her voice was so tremulous that he sensed the entire room leaning forward to hear, “My home is in you. You are my home.”

Ohad took the bowl away and busied himself with cleaning up the table. There was a hesitant pause from the guests, as though no one knew what to expect next, before the officiant seemed to realise they had to be informed the ceremony was over. His subvocals hummed awkwardly. “Congratulations.”

Garrus wanted to grab Shepard and kiss her properly, but he was covered in ash and she looked so luminous—

But Castis was clapping him on the back and Sol had rushed forward to press her brow against Shepard’s once more.

Shepard shot him a helpless look as she hugged Solana, mindful of her ashy fingers, but the expression was so foreign to her face that he started to laugh. At that, Shepard did too, then Sol, then Castis, the clamour of applause only adding to the merriment. Sol released Shepard, only to switch positions with Castis, and Garrus was fairly certain he would never kiss his wife again.

 _Wife._ The word made his mandibles go lopsided and Sol noticed. She gave him a playful shove, though she still held onto his arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up so we can party! You can mash faces with Shepard later.”

Castis’ subvocals squawked above Shepard’s bright head. “What my darling daughter is trying to say is that there’s still a lot to do. Shall we, my dear?” He looked down to his new daughter-in-law.

That brilliant, bright smile broke out once more. “Well, it is customary that the bride and groom—" Garrus heard the glee in her voice, the very same he felt in his heart when she said those words, “—walk out together.”

Castis seemed to consider this. “I think we can trust them to make it down the aisle alone, my darling.” Sol’s subvocals whined in good-natured annoyance as their father joined Garrus and Shepard’s hands together. “Your mother would have been very happy today.”

Garrus swallowed down on the emotions bubbling up as Shepard squeezed his hand. “I know,” he said to his dad, who understood those two words and what they meant almost as much as Shepard.

Almost, but not quite, he thought as they walked hand in hand down that aisle together.


	20. A Wedding Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story wouldn't be possible without my dear beta, [Some_Writer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Writer/pseuds/Some_Writer/works?fandom_id=15764730), the wonderful people at Fishcat, and all my amazing readers. Thank you so much for going on this adventure with me.

**TThe Citadel, 2194**

 

It was their first moment alone together since the ceremony— since the evening before— but neither of them seemed capable of speaking. Garrus would have been ashamed to be staring down at Shepard, the very tips of his fringe vibrating with joy, but for the fact she mirrored his own radiant expression; her beaming face turned up to his shining, freshly cleaned visage.

They were in a long, narrow hall of the hotel, just a few rooms away from the smaller salon where the ceremony took place, but directly in front of the doors to a larger room where hours of food and drink, music and merriment, and maybe even dancing awaited them.

Yet neither of them seemed in a rush to go ahead and start the party. It was simply enough to gaze at one and other. Enough for Garrus to tilt his head down to Shepard’s and—

“I like the way your people party,” Wrex rumbled in approval, swinging the doors wide open. He wasn’t alone, either. Grunt was just behind him, and both of them were armed with chairs.

Garrus’ amorous attentions turned to swift defiance. “No. No. You said—"

Wrex bared all his yellow teeth at Garrus in mockery. “Scared, kid?”

Grunt huffed a chuckle at the thought. “It’s just a little chair.”

Garrus eyed the offending piece of furniture sceptically. In fact, that was part of the problem. It looked far too small and insubstantial to seat him and be hoisted festively in the air. “Me and office furniture don’t have a good history.” Even after all these years, the former Shadow Broker’s desk left a bruise on his ego, if not his head.

It was Shepard, though, or rather Shepard’s blithesome laugh that urged him closer to the chair. “You promised,” he levelled at her.

She fearlessly seated herself in the one Grunt proffered. “I did not. I said ‘we’ll see.’”

Unfortunately, that was true. It didn’t help even when Grunt gave Garrus a slightly sympathetic glance. “Bakara says that a lot, too.”

Garrus’ talons were in a death grip, clutching the seat of the chair for dear life, though Wrex hadn’t even lifted it up yet. He was about to ask the krogan to give him some warning, but almost instantaneously, he found himself airborne. A most undignified yelp escaped him, echoed by Shepard’s merriment and a general roar of celebration as Wrex and Grunt marched them into the waiting crowd of guests.

If he looked at a fixed point and hung on tightly, it was no worse than cliff-diving in the Mako; the same stomach-swooping jars and dips. But he saw Shepard’s hand outstretched toward him, somehow looking as confident as she had behind the wheel of that death trap.

“You’re crazy,” he blurted out, much to the eternal amusement of their nearest and dearest friends and family.

She made a face that was at once teasing and conciliatory. “It’s tradition. Trust me.”

As though he ever had not. A stab of spite made him grab her hand as much as his faith in her bolstered him up. To his amazement, neither of them toppled to their death upon the dancers, led Sol and Tali, circling underneath them. Shepard’s convictions regarding her crew’s abilities justifiably extended even to this.

Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been as bad as he feared, but he wasn’t about to admit this to Shepard. It was easy, now, to concentrate on her shining face.  On the cool, firm, familiar hand he held in his palm, rather than the reeling room in their wake. The vibrantly jubilant music crashed on as friends and family whirled beneath their high perches. Shepard’s laughter rang clearly above the music, most likely at the expression on his face. He wanted to gripe about submitting to this dance, to once again being dominated by office furniture, but Wrex was lowering him down. He was engulfed by well-wishes before his feet even touched the ground.

Never, till his dying day, would he remember the next few hours clearly. There was Joker, still respectful but always jocular with Shepard, shaking her hand and introducing a small human woman with a cloud of curly black hair and enormous blue eyes as his girlfriend, Oona. Garrus heard in Joker’s voice the same derisively boastful tone he himself used to employ when he called Shepard his girlfriend. Shepard stood on no ceremony, though, and hugged a red-eared Joker, then turned her extraordinarily bright smile on Oona.

There was Dr. Chakwas, pink about the eyes, waxing poetic about their long courtship. There were Kaidan and Steve, the former silver-dappled and the latter with more happy creases in the corner of his eyes, comparing their matching wide silver bands with Shepard’s slender rose-gold chevron.

There were Wrex and Grunt, forgoing headbutts to clap shoulders and tease, quite seriously, about the next step for the Shepard-Vakarians—kids.

There was Samantha, shyly congratulatory, as was Adams. Ken and Gabby with their toddler, as warm-hearted and sharp-tongued as old times; Jacob and Brynn and their daughter, stiff but sincere.

There was Kelly, as invasive and cheerful as ever. Diana was solicitous but without a motive beyond their happiness. Hackett, stiff and overly formal, left soon after he congratulated the newly-wedded pair.

There was Tali, effusive when hugging Shepard, sardonic when congratulating Garrus. Jimmy, all enthusiasm and no restraint as he lifted Shepard off the ground in a hug and slapped Garrus’ cowl with an exhilarated crow of elation.

There was Jack, hanging back between Zaeed and Victus, all three with drinks in their hands. Zaeed, loudly denouncing matrimony, questioning why Garrus had entered it at all. Victus, stern and taciturn, yet still amused by Zaeed’s colloquialisms about paying for free milk. Jack, affecting a disinterested moue, gulping from her glass.

There was Liara with a crisp kiss upon Garrus’ mandible. “I understand now how happy you make her.” For once, her cheeks didn’t flush violet when Shepard coolly yet cordially returned her embrace, but nearly a decade of passionate admiration was hard to overcome.  

There were toasts—a riotous one by Jimmy recalling daring exploits and making keen observations, and a charmingly funny one from Tali, full of silly anecdotes and touching memories. A poignant speech from Castis that made Shepard’s eyes sparkle like dew-kissed grass and Garrus’ own cowl tingle with sentiment. There were heaping dishes on the tables and drinks on silver platters and so many people to greet and thank and chit-chat with that more hours went by somehow, as softly but swiftly as the cherry blossoms fell from Shepard’s circlet.

And yet, he longed for a moment with Shepard. There she was, circled by Tali, Sol, Sam, Gabby, and Oona. Here she was, laughing with Dr. Chakwas and Victus. Grinning triumphantly over their heads as Kolyat and Oriana, resplendent in a violet dress that nearly eclipsed Shepard’s bridal silks, sat together in a corner. Every time he sought her, she was surrounded by clusters of people, and every time she caught his eye, he was joking with Jimmy or listening to advice from Wrex, or scorn from Zaeed—who was always careful to say Shepard wasn’t like most women anyway.

But then, at last, he looked up from Grunt’s story of his latest adventure with Aralakh Company, beyond Sol teaching Tali a dance step, past Joker whispering something humorous to his girlfriend, to see Shepard— gloriously, splendidly alone— sipping a glass of water by the edge of the dance floor.

No one waylaid him as he crossed the room. He could admire her a moment—the line of her back in that silken, draping gown, the red-gold of her hair blushed with cherry blossoms and silvered with _galanthus_ leaves. She turned and her smile was more luminous than the light catching off his mother’s silver cuffs that she wore at her wrists.

There was so much to say. How beautiful she looked. How much he loved her. How glad he was that he was going to spend the rest of his life with her. How empty and lonely and hideous his life would be without her.

“You’re not dancing.”

She beamed in a way that made his chest ache in a strange way. Not unlike when they made love or sat together on the couch or held hands. Like an integral part of himself that he didn’t know that he was lacking was suddenly made whole. “Are you sure you want to embarrass yourself on the dance floor with me?”

Someone—Jimmy, he was sure of it—hijacked the band and an old standard, even familiar to Garrus began to play. _At last my love has come along…_

He moved closer, arms around her waist. “Hey, that’s my wife you’re talking about.”

She didn’t stop smiling like that, but something like wonderment passed over her face. “Wife,” she repeated, as though hearing the word for the first time. “I’m your wife.” Her voice grew positively giddy, echoing the way the word made his heart leap. “We’re married.” And before he could say a word, the lines of her mouth grew a little more solemn and tender. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

They swayed to the music with little consideration for the rhythm or the beat. He knew his expression matched hers, but he couldn’t resist making light of their euphoric glee by deadpanning, “Yeah, you should really stick to asking for easier things. Catch a rogue spectre, go through the Omega-4 relay. Save the galaxy. But never another wedding.”

Her arms were looped around his cowl. Her face was tilted up to his like a flower to the sun. If there were other people in the room, Garrus forgot about them all. “I guess you’re stuck with me.” And there, in the corner of her mouth, that smile he especially loved blossomed.

He wanted to kiss that corner. He wanted to kiss that smile. He wanted to kiss her. And without a thought— unlike those times in the past where he worried it was to be the last time— he knew instead it was the first of so many wonderful, thoughtless, satisfied kisses.

A roar went up behind him, definitely Jimmy again, but Jack’s whistle could be heard, too. Applause and raucous, good-natured jeers made a din above the slow music, though they had stopped any pretence of dancing. And when Garrus finally, finally pulled away, it was to whisper in Shepard’s ear, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”


End file.
